


stargazing in daylight

by mandahrin



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Criminals, Angst, Art, Heist, M/M, Minor Iwaizumi Hajime/Oikawa Tooru, Minor Kozume Kenma/Kuroo Tetsurou, Mutual Pining, Pining, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-19
Updated: 2020-10-19
Packaged: 2021-03-07 15:53:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 26,007
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26990203
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mandahrin/pseuds/mandahrin
Summary: I captured this brief moment in my mind and replayed it countlessly in my memories. I cherished a smile that happened for less than a second and then never again but oh, how lovely it was. In the prettiest time of spring, I could not take my eyes off him: the strange phenomenon of stargazing in daylight.Amidst stealing paintings and smoking his life away, Bokuto comes to realise that neither of these give him what Akaashi Keiji can.
Relationships: Akaashi Keiji/Bokuto Koutarou
Comments: 7
Kudos: 8





	stargazing in daylight

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by this lovely [fic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6725836/chapters/15375055)! 
> 
> so it became longer than i expected and i decided to cut it into two parts. and yes because i can't resist putting in any star metaphor i can just because its bokuaka lol 
> 
> anyways, i hope you like it!

_And I also know that you love me with a love_

_chaste, infinite, realm of sadness..._

_As for my crying over you, I bleached it away slowly_

_day by day as full light does_

_and in silence I sent it back to my eyes_

_which, if I look at you, are alive with stars._

“And it would be even easier” by Alda Merini

_Late Spring (May, 2022)_

This is the last one. Bokuto squats, his favourite pants creasing, as he traces the paper edges with an unusually delicate touch. The woman in the print averts her gaze from him, as if she finds him distasteful. After this, he’ll finally be a free man. Well, not entirely from the clutches of governmental law, but owing Kuroo favours might just be on the same level.

“I’d be mad too if I were you,” he says to her, to the empty spring air that wafts in from the gap in the balcony door. “You used to get all the attention, didn’t you? Its gone now.”

Of course she doesn’t reply. Bokuto frowns, eyes following the thin brush strokes that line her face and curve down her eyebrows and earlobes. The fullness of her face; a discreet, reserved beauty donned in a muted _kimono_. The faint threads of dismay etched across her features, forever suspended in time. He presses his lips together, mulling over the famous artwork before him. He did find it odd that Kuroo stuck to this print to end Bokuto’s long, enduring journey with him. The snarky underground art dealer has always had a thing for European museums instead. Bokuto lets out a sigh at the memory of Kuroo sending him all the way to Musee d’Orsay near the banks of the Seine because he — as well as the furtive art collectors he dealt with — had a passionate Monet phase. The operation was a roaring success; the public outraged with the multiple Monets absent from their frames, and Kuroo, drowning in cash, even happier.

Which is why he’s surprised that Kuroo wanted an artwork from home. Not a painting from an 18th century collection in Jacquemart-Andre, nor a contemporary from Nottingham. _Fukaku Shinobu Koi_ is her name; a _Deeply Hidden Love_ by Utamaro, with mild restorations that Bokuto is only able to notice from his experience in stealing countless pieces. And to steal just _one_. It seemed like such a waste in retrospect, because it sure was tempting not to snag a few others that innocently lay in front of him. But Kuroo had specifically said that he will only accept the _Fukaku Shinobu Koi_ , and nothing else. Stepping away from the print, he pushes open the balcony door further, leaning outwards into the view of a waking sun peeking from behind grey houses and taut cable lines. He’s taken on bigger jobs — but last night still ran long. Bokuto pauses for a moment, hesitating, before lighting a cigarette and blowing a thin, grey line of smoke that disappears almost immediately in the cold. Relaxing the tension of his shoulders a bit more, he leans on the railing as he clears his mind from the fatigue that hit him right from the moment he returned to the apartment.

Though there was less security, it definitely wasn’t an easy job. Bigger museums meant bigger exit points, wider hallways, and darker exhibitions. It also meant more watchful eyes and a guard possibly coming around every corner. But Bokuto’s used to it. Maybe because Europe seemed busier than the quieter Kanagawa Prefecture, more so the Okada Museum shrouded in the woodlands. He always preferred weaving into a crowd and disappearing before security can hear the echo of his footsteps. It _should’ve_ been better, easier, really, everything Bokuto could ask for as his final heist. Fortunately, Oikawa’s more used to handling change than he is; scouting the area as easily as he has been doing in London, Spain and France. They paid their first short one hour visit to Okada three months before, and Oikawa had managed to draw out the quickest route to _Fukaku Shinobu Koi;_ pinpointing the cameras and type of alarm systems in the entirety of Bokuto admiring a large _Fujin-Raijin_ painting near the foot-bath cafe.

(“I don’t even know why you bother to come for these surveillance trips,” Oikawa says during their fourth time at the museum, curled lip twitching in mild annoyance.

Bokuto’s eating a soufflé pancake for the fourth time at the cafe, mumbling his incoherent answer with a mouth full. Two girls sitting behind them speak in hushed whispers, giggling as they ogle at Oikawa from their table, though he seems to be unaware, staring at the crumbs around Bokuto’s mouth in horror. He scrunches his nose in disgust, tapping a finger on the table absentmindedly.

“Ew. Gross. Don’t speak with food in your mouth, you heathen.”

Once he polishes off the remnants of pancake on his plate, Bokuto replies, “you should do the dirty work, then. All you do is sit behind a screen and order me where to go.”

“Damn right I do. And if you’re caught, I want you to eat your earpiece. You better not be leaving any evidence linked to me.”

“Ha! That’s funny, Oikawa. I’ll see you in jail.”) 

The problem wasn’t the actual process of the operation. With Oikawa hacking the cameras and alarm systems as Bokuto breezes through using the shadows of the huge walls to his advantage, he was able to avoid the guards and grab _Fukaku Shinobu Koi_ from her glass box in record time. No, the problem was _getting away._ Kuroo had — in his words, ‘so graciously’ — sponsored them with a van to drive all the way back to Tokyo, and someone do it for them at that. However, with the Okada Museum tucked into the heart of a forested area, having the van nearby would be plainly obvious. It just was Bokuto’s luck that he had temporarily lost contact with Miya Atsumu, who was supposed to get him ninety-eight kilometres away from the museum and back to Kawagoe-shi. They had been banking on the luck of _good timing_ ; essentially on the hope that Atsumu would drive into the carpark as soon as Bokuto gave him the word. The plan failed, however, due to connection problems with the bluetooth. Bokuto had to hide in the botanical gardens behind the main building, spending a bulk of his time anxiously tinkering with his earpiece until Atsumu’s voice came in screeching with panic.

The rest of his escapade was a blur of adrenaline and running until his gasps of breath could hardly catch up with the movement of his legs. Bokuto will admit that the only reason it took so long for the guards to sound the alarm system was because Oikawa had remembered to disable it albeit temporarily, which gave him those few extra steps to jump into the van as a security guard yelled from across a long corridor. By the time Atsumu is ramming his foot on the accelerator, Oikawa is already in angry tears, punching Bokuto’s shoulder in pent-up frustration while he yells “why the hell did you cut contact right after you carved the glass box?! You idiot!” despite Bokuto repeatedly telling him that it wasn’t on purpose.

They miraculously arrived back in Tokyo while it was still dark. Atsumu dropped Bokuto off at Kuroo’s Kawagoe-shi apartment with a wary smile. He shrills a hasty goodbye before speeding off into the dark of the road with Oikawa at the back of the van, frantically erasing any evidence that he had tampered with the museum’s main system on his multiple computers.

And so now here he stands, smoking away the strain of the job. _Fukaku Shinobu Koi_ lies on the dining table, waiting patiently for Kuroo to arrive and whisk her away for however much an art collector had agreed on. The Kawagoe-shi apartment dwells in modest tranquility, starkly contrasting the way Kuroo has furnished it with plush neon microfibre sofas and mismatched paintings hung on every wall. Bokuto stares wryly at a particular one that hangs right beside the television. _La Cueillette des fleurs_ by Renoir, an oil canvas that Bokuto went through painstaking work in Washington to get three years ago, and among the other paintings they took off with, it was the one that stood by him the most. He can see why Kuroo decided to keep it for himself, though. Bokuto can come close to appreciating Impressionism too, if he wanted. There’s just something captivating about how everything looks like a dream; a blurry, hazy, colourful meadow of green and hues of blue and pink. A girl gazing softly at a rose, and a boy in the bloom of youth, picks it for her.

He liked the salty smell of the sea breeze from the Pacific off the coast of Washington, but it wasn’t enough to curb the excruciating eight months with Oikawa and another of Kuroo’s employees, Kageyama, who had just started in the business at the time. It turned out that the guy was crazy good at blending into his surroundings and memorising the extensive schedule of security change. However, Bokuto almost went insane because of how often Kageyama and Oikawa were at each other’s throats. Which is why Kageyama doesn’t really work with them anymore, and the last Bokuto’s heard of him is that he’s camping out in Italy, eyes set on the Gallerie dell’Accademia.

He remembers the house that Kuroo got for them in Washington. It wasn’t the worst, but it wasn’t the best either. Although Bokuto had a screwed up sleep schedule, the constant ringing of ambulances on the main street nearby still managed to keep him awake. Not to mention the drunkards that roamed just outside their house, spewing lewd curses into punctuated broken beer bottles. If Bokuto had to choose his favourite living space that Kuroo has allowed him to use, it would in fact be the one he’s currently standing in now. For a number of reasons, of course. During the four month course of their preparations to steal _Fukaku Shinobu Koi_ , he had the Kawagoe-shi apartment all to himself, because Oikawa had insisted to Kuroo that his home wasn’t too far from here, and he’d like to do his work there in peace thank you very much. Bokuto was all too happy to agree. He has shared enough houses and apartments with Oikawa in Europe to know how much a pain of an ass the both of them can be around each other. The small suburban area isn’t too quiet or noisy, and he was lucky enough to see the cherry blossoms at _Shingashi_ River in April last month.

The doorbell rings. Bokuto ignores it, thinking its Kuroo. But when the doorbell sounds for the second time, Bokuto strides over, cigarette in hand, opening the door wide. “You could’ve just— Oh! Akaashi?!”

The final (and, probably biggest) reason stands in front of him. Akaashi wears a ghost of a smile that tilts his lips, stretching his hand out, holding a bunch of neatly piled letters. “The cleaning lady downstairs told me she saw you finally come home. I thought I’d give you your mail. They’re still placing them in my letterbox, by the way.”

Right. His neighbour Akaashi. His _very pretty_ neighbour, at that. Akaashi looks happy to see him, in his own quiet way. After all, Bokuto had been gone for a week, settling the final phases of the operation in Kowakudani. But for all Akaashi knows, he only went on an innocent business trip. Bokuto’s stunned to see Akaashi so soon. He wants to say something corny like “I miss you”, but they’re not that close for Bokuto to blurt it out. Or maybe they are. Bokuto doesn’t know what he is to his neighbour really, and all the words that he wants to say gets stuck in his throat.

Bokuto met Akaashi in late winter four months ago, during the very first phase of the operation, the same way Akaashi comes to meet him now. He had recently moved into the Kawagoe-shi apartment to wait it out; his only form of entertainment being Kuroo or Oikawa and Atsumu barging in to discuss about the plan details. Then, there was a day when the doorbell rang and Bokuto goes to answer it, only to find a curly-haired stranger with green eyes telling him that the mailman has got the address wrong, and that these are your letters, new neighbour. It takes a second for Bokuto to think “ _wow_ ”, and three to awkwardly burst out a way too loud “thanks!”

Bokuto was stunned when he said “I’m Akaashi Keiji, your neighbour next door. Nice to meet you, Konoha-san” because his name is definitely _not_ Konoha and he wonders why Akaashi would even assume he looked like a _Konoha_. But as he quickly sifts through the letters (which comprised of junk mail and a continuing subscription of Volleyball Monthly to a certain Konoha Akinori; probably the previous resident), Bokuto decided to remain as Konoha if he wanted the chance to ever talk to Akaashi a second time. He only hoped that Kuroo won’t be madly pissed with him when he finds out that Bokuto has been ‘frolicking around with normal people’.

Strangely, Kuroo wasn’t as angry as Bokuto thought he would be. When he caught Bokuto chatting happily with Akaashi in the hallway, he stayed eerily quiet back in the apartment, although Bokuto was practically begging him to say something, babbling about how Akaashi doesn’t even know his real identity.

(“Well, I guess I can’t expect you to be a hermit with no social interaction at all,” Kuroo finally drawls. “I know how you can talk the house down when Oikawa and I are over.”

Bokuto breathes out in relief. “So I can continue talking to him?”

“You have to keep the relationship strictly as acquaintances. Be aware of your situation a bit more, Bokuto! We’re practically _criminals_. What is he going to think if he gets to know the truth?”)

But Bokuto didn’t tell Kuroo about the times he had purposely waited by the letterboxes for Akaashi to come back just so that they could walk to their apartments together. Nor the times Bokuto pretended he was out for a jog in the early mornings so that Akaashi would suggest they have breakfast at the nearby bakery. As far as Kuroo’s concerned, they’re acquaintances, and it ends there.

Bokuto takes the letters, laughing as he goes “thanks Akaashi! Are you on your way to work?” He makes sure to close the door until he’s sufficiently blocking the view into the apartment. He doesn’t know if a shounen manga editor will recognise a real _La Cueillette des fleurs,_ but the painting is conspicuous enough for anyone to notice.

“Yes,” Akaashi says. He’s wearing a dark coat over a cream sweater. “How did the trip go, Konoha-san?”

Stressful. Wild. Exhilarating. Never again. “It went well! I think my boss will be happy,” Bokuto rubs his nape. “It was definitely tough...and as usual my partner was super annoying. But we managed to follow our schedule though I messed up a little...Ah, I’m babbling again.” He laughs somewhat nervously. “Anyway, I was thinking about quitting. I had a talk with my boss and told him I’m sure. He didn’t seem very happy because he says I’m his best man. But I think I’ve made enough for myself and I don’t want to keep living like this, y’know?”

Akaashi’s eyebrows raise slightly, surprised at Bokuto’s sudden declaration. Bokuto glances at Akaashi’s pretty fingers, fidgeting and intertwining together. “Why? Are you moving to another programming company?”

A (not really) white lie that Bokuto had sprouted from his head: he’s a programmer. He’s just barely managed to keep up with the act; sprouting whatever technology and coding nonsense Oikawa has nagged into his brain before. Thankfully, Akaashi seems more unfamiliar about that field of expertise than him.

“Nah. I think I’ll quit being in the programming business for good.”

“I see,” Akaashi replies quietly, his left thumb massaging his right index. “Then what will you do? Will you move from here?”

Bokuto was never one to prepare with a plan, but this time he had one; a bargain with Kuroo for _Fukaku Shinobu Koi._ It might be a risky, stupid plan, he knows, because he’s just relying on a hunch that Kuroo’s desperate for this particular print. But its the only option he has to secure a place to stay and enough money to keep afloat — _totally_ _normal_ insurance stuff after resignation. Continuing down this path of cutting paintings off their frames equaled to Kuroo sending him away on jobs to the other side of the world. Now with Akaashi standing in front of him, Bokuto realised quite a while ago that he made the decision to quit being an art thief because he wants to _stay_. Here, with Akaashi, possibly, if he’d let him.

“Not a chance,” Bokuto decides to say, grinning. “I won’t be going anywhere.”

Akaashi replies to his optimism with a small smile. A one that Bokuto wants to take a picture of and keep it in his pocket forever, just because it is so rare. “That’s assuring to hear. I, on the other hand, have to get going. Please excuse me.”

He’s so polite, so _terribly_ polite that Bokuto always finds himself taken aback by his refinement. “B-bye.” His voice gets caught in his throat as Akaashi is already turning his heel and walking down the corridor. Bokuto is staring for too long when all of a sudden, Akaashi turns back around, wearing a slightly exasperated expression in a quirk of his lips, though it bears no bite.

“You also promised me you’d stop smoking, Konoha-san.”

*

Kuroo comes in a little after eight, when Bokuto is attempting to cook a breakfast of cheap bacon and eggs. As soon as he steps into the apartment, the both of them share a brief moment of eye contact — Kuroo by the gap of the door and Bokuto by the sink — before scrambling to the dining table for _Fukaku Shinobu Koi._ Bokuto leaps and pushes Kuroo away from the woodblock print just in time, standing defensively in front of the table.

Kuroo gives him an incredulous look on the floor, before chuckling in mild amusement. “Man...If looks could kill,” he mutters as he stands up, rubbing the back of his head. “I knew you were up to something from the moment I walked in. Spit it out, Bokuto.”

“I wanna make a trade. How important is this piece to you?”

“Very.”

“I thought so. You’re being weird about it,” Bokuto frowns and crosses his arms together. “I assumed you wanted me to steal the _Water Lilies_ because you’ve been hinting about it these past few months _._ You aren’t so kind to give me this... _easier_ job as my last.”

“That’s defamation,” Kuroo drawls before shrugging nonchalantly. “Well, _Fukaku Shinobu Koi_ was auctioned off for seven hundred and forty-five grand in euros before. It isn’t a small thing, either.”

“You see? You’re still talking in euros. And you only deal with collectors who like the same stuff as you. I bet you don’t even think she’s _worth_ mentioning. So tell me the real reason why you want her.”

“Your eggs are burning, dumbass.”

Bokuto grabs the woodblock print, carefully hugging it as he goes to turn off the stove. Kuroo slumps onto the ugly neon red sofa, sighing loudly. “What do you want, Bokuto.”

“You’re avoiding my question. Now I’m curious.”

Kuroo looks visibly irked, eyes burning holes into the print that Bokuto holds in his hands. But more than anything, he looks tired. His eye bags are darkened, bed hair messier than usual (if that is even possible), like he’s left behind days of sleep. He is silent for a moment, staring blankly into space, before muttering, “I’m in love with someone.”

Bokuto can’t help but stifle a laugh. But when Kuroo does nothing to retort, Bokuto realises that he is actually being serious. Trust him to say something so sappy and yet be so cool about it. _What an irritating guy._ Bokuto coughs into his fist awkwardly.

_“_ You don’t look like you are,” he thinks aloud, eyebrows raised. “I’d be honest, you look like shit right now.”

“Its unrequited,” Kuroo says, before shooting him a look. “I don’t know why I’m talking about this with you. Its giving me the creeps.”

“Hey. You’re the closest friend I have. Possessive too. You don’t let me make any others.”

“Shut up.”

Noticing how Kuroo’s eyes linger on _Fukaku Shinobu Koi_ , Bokuto reaches an unsettling epiphany. His eyes widen in shock, mouth agape. “Oh. _Oh_ ,” Bokuto gawks, startling Kuroo. “ _No._ Don’t tell me...its a _collector_. Hell, Kuroo, really? A client?”

He gets a reply of a wry side-eye. Bokuto tries his hardest not to wince. A heavy, unsettling feeling gnaws at the foot of his throat and if anything, he feels bad. It does not look like a pleasant story from the looks of it. “You’re a fool,” he huffs out, sitting down next to him. “He wants this piece, is that it? Funny how its called a _Deeply Hidden Love._ Maybe its a sign to you that he knows?”

“I need a smoke,” Kuroo ignores him, holding his hand out; a signal for a cigarette. Bokuto slaps it away instantly.

“I’m trying to quit,” he says lamely.

“Bullshit. You’ve been saying that for months. I saw your ashtray on the counter.”

“Its a resolution I made an hour ago. Better late than never.”

Kuroo lets out an incredulous chuckle, almost like he knows the reason why. The both of them sit side by side in a short silence, staring at _La Cueillette des fleurs,_ the atmosphere in the apartment hanging by threads of dread. “I’m assuming you want some sort of incentive as that was your last job,” Kuroo finally says. “I think I’ve given you enough cash for two lifetimes. You can even sell these paintings here, if you want.”

“I want this apartment too.”

Surprise flashes across Kuroo’s face, before realisation sets in. “You’re digging your own grave, _Konoha_.” He says the name like prickling venom. Bokuto chews his bottom lip, heart sinking into his chest.

“I’ll come clean to him. Gradually.”

“You _can’t_ ,” Kuroo interjects immediately, mouth pressed into a straight line. “You’ll compromise everyone. Did you forget what happened to Oikawa?”

Bokuto stays silent. Of course he hasn’t forgotten. Which is why he feels a twinge of jealously realising that even though Kuroo faces unrequitedness, that person already knows his dirty, true colours. He didn’t have to hide anything else. And behind envy, a sliver of resentment. What he wouldn’t give to at least be in the same situation as Kuroo right now? How many times has he had to hold himself back in front of Akaashi, to hide behind a mask that he can barely recognise as himself? If Kuroo has such an advantage, why isn’t he doing anything about it?

“Y’know Bokuto, I didn’t want to say anything, but I know there’s no way you’re quitting for good.” Kuroo continues, ranting in annoyance. “I’m just going along with your whims, you know that? You love the thrill of the heist too much.” He pauses, a tinge of pity in his tone. “A normal life just isn’t for you.” 

Bokuto frowns, but he hates that there is a hint of truth in Kuroo’s words. Akaashi emerges in his mind, his small smiles, the way he entangles his fingers together, the gentle look he gives that sprouts a numb, aching yearning in Bokuto’s insides. The same yearning that spreads to his fingertips at the thought of Akaashi saying _Bokuto Koutarou_ instead of _Konoha-san_.

“I don’t care,” he finds himself muttering. “I’ll come up with something. Say my family had problems. I won’t rat you guys out.”

Kuroo stares at him hard, with eyebrows furrowed in deep thinking. Bokuto returns it with a weary glance, hugging _Fukaku Shinobu Koi_ tightly like its his only trump card. “Fine,” Kuroo breaks the silence after a while. “But on a condition: do one last job for me.”

“You said that the previous time.”

“I mean it; you’re my best guy. How can I let you go so easily? I’ll pay you with this apartment. And after that you can live as Konoha or Bokuto for all the shits I give. Just never brag to anyone that you’ve stolen Monets before. _Ever._ If this is a repeat of Oikawa in France, I’ll personally hunt you down.”

Bokuto barks out a short, empty laugh before his eyes narrow. “You’re oddly compromising.”

Kuroo scoffs, fingers drumming the arm of the sofa in mild impatience. “I mean, if someone wants to quit, I can’t exactly stop them, can I?” He mutters, adding, “you really gotta stop being so suspicious of me. Haven’t I always been this kind?”

“I’ve worked with you long enough to know that there’s a catch.”

“And _I’ve_ worked with you long enough to know that you make decisions like how you cook your food,” Kuroo replies. “Utter shit.”

“Ouch.”

“I don’t know what else to say. _Really_ , Bokuto. Quitting? For him?”

Exhaling loudly, Bokuto wryly glances at Kuroo’s exhausted face, realising that they could be more similar than he’d like them to be.

“Maybe we are both fools.”

*

_Late Winter (February, 2022)_

Winter in Kawagoe-shi is sunny as it is cold, and leaves Bokuto feeling nostalgic. How long has it been since he’s experienced winter in Tokyo? Around this time in the previous years, he would have been standing under museum entrances with Oikawa as London clouds rear their ugly heads, lamenting their sorrows in rain and snow.

Kuroo had asked him to return to Japan with considerable urgency. “We need to discuss a new job,” he told Bokuto over a burner phone. “Take the Kawagoe-shi apartment. The pin is my birthday. If you don’t know it, you’re sleeping outside.”

And here he is, a week later. Kuroo still hasn’t contacted him, so Bokuto can’t complain about the monstrosity of the apartment’s furnishing. He even felt a twitch in his cheek when he saw that Kuroo had left the _La Cueillette des fleurs_ painting he had worked so hard to get on the floor, propped up against the wall. The social isolation is killing him, gnawing at him slowly day by day. Usually there’d be Oikawa around for him to annoy, but the latter hasn’t turned up yet, which makes Bokuto wonder if he has finally decided to execute his ‘elope with my first love Iwa-chan’ plan that he’s always been yapping about. Bokuto slips on a worn-out hoodie from his small luggage (that he didn’t bother to unpack) and steps outside onto the balcony.

There is the faint sound of traffic from the main road, and when the wind blows, Bokuto closes his eyes with fingers numbing from the cold. He lights a cigarette, exhaling the smoke with a sigh. Waiting games were never his favourite ones, but somehow, Kuroo particularly likes to bide his time. He’s also surprised that Kuroo didn’t wordlessly send them plane tickets to somewhere like Chicago. Not that Bokuto is complaining. This is probably one of the few times he’s allowed to stay in Japan for a long period of time; he’s been hopping around Europe and the Americas for years. He even has a work visa for a job overseas that he knows nothing about; except that its a company owned by Kuroo’s _yakuza ‘_ friend’ as a front to launder money. Bokuto has no idea how this managed to work against law enforcements, but what he _does_ know, is that Kuroo’s connections are as smart as they are dangerous.

It is unfamiliar, but it is home. Sometimes he forgets; it slips when he is barely aware of it, like asking the convenience store cashier a question in english, or being surprised when his wallet is full of yen instead of euros or dollars. Its stupid, he knows, unable to help this alienated feeling that wallows in pits of his stomach although he shouldn’t be. He’s finally home, but it does leave a bitter aftertaste.

“You shouldn’t smoke, Konoha-san,” a voice says, quiet but distinct, causing Bokuto’s eyes to snap open. He turns, finding his neighbour standing on his own balcony with a basket full of clothes. Bokuto usually isn’t good with names, but he immediately puts one to the face that is staring at him with mild disapproval. Akaashi: neighbour who gave him someone else’s mail five days ago. Well, technically now, its _his_ mail. Thankfully, Bokuto doesn’t have trouble keeping to his aliases. One time, when he was being adventurous (much to Oikawa’s disgust), he flirted with a tour guide in London’s National Gallery under the alias of _Zachary_. It worked, surprisingly; she told him that there was a secret side door she uses as a shortcut when she’s late for work. Bokuto credited their success to his google search of ‘sexiest English male names’ and his weird party trick of being a natural at accents.

“Ah! I’m sorry,” He chuckles, a little embarrassed. “I’ll face the other way.” He turns, pressing the cigarette in between his lips. Bokuto hums a tune to himself, trying to dissipate the awkwardness from his encounter with Akaashi. He hears a rustle; the sound of clothes being unfolded, and the soft clanking of poles. Bokuto sneaks a peak from the corner of his eye, watching Akaashi silently hang his clothes on bamboo hangers.

Bokuto can’t help but stare. Even when doing the most menial of tasks, his neighbour still manages to look somewhat regal. Who exactly is he? Bokuto muses, tapping the ashes out of the cigarette end into his ashtray. Handsome, polite, seems like he has his life all put together, and with a little refinement there is a certain air of mystery surrounding him. Bokuto can already tell that they’re miles, no, worlds different from each other. _I want to get to know him_ , Bokuto thinks, resting his head on his palm. _And if I do, would it be possible for him to know me?_ Swatting away Kuroo’s not-too-distant nagging in his head, he fills up the space with the way Akaashi’s slender fingers grab pieces of clothing. Subconsciously, Bokuto swallows a nonexistent lump in his throat.

“Don’t you have a dryer?” Bokuto asks, making Akaashi pause in the midst of smoothing creases out of a shirt. “I heard there’s one that comes with the apartments here.”

Akaashi doesn’t even blink, but Bokuto notices a flash of surprise across his features at his sudden attempt at a conversation. “Yes,” Akaashi replies, continuing to drape the shirt over a pole. “But I prefer to dry them while there is sun.”

“Really? Isn’t that a waste of time?”

Cursing in his head, Bokuto clamps his mouth shut, realising how tactless that must’ve sounded. But Akaashi doesn’t get angry. Instead, he is unfazed, grabbing a pair of jeans. “I suppose so, though I am just following what my mother taught me before. The process is strangely therapeutic.”

“Really? Then maybe I should do that too!” Bokuto says, staring at the cloudless sky. “I have way too much time to waste.”

“Oh? What do you do, Konoha-san?”

Bokuto tries his best not to visibly flinch. “Uh...programming...and stuff. But I’ve been so productive lately that I’ve done everything I needed to...do.”

Shit. Shit shit shit. Bokuto winces inwardly. He should’ve known that there’d be consequences in making conversations. Kuroo had always warned him, but he never really listens. However, Akaashi seems to buy it, nodding like he understands.

“How about you, Akashi-kun?”

Akaashi doesn’t answer for awhile, before replying quietly, “I’m a shounen manga editor. And its _Akaashi_ , Kohona-san.”

“Wow!” Bokuto exclaims, turning to fully face Akaashi in his excitement, hands gripping the railing. “Which manga? Can I read it?”

Akaashi flinches slightly at Bokuto’s sudden surge of excitement, surprised. “I’m sorry,” he dips his head, busying his arms with the sparse amount of clothes left in the basket. “I can’t say...not yet, at least. The _mangaka_ I am working with is currently facing security problems.”

“Awh.” Bokuto says, lips drooping in a mock pout. “That’s too bad.”

Akaashi pauses for a moment, seemingly in thought, before glancing back at his laundry basket and says, “I...My _mangaka_ has been having trouble with inspiration on the manga. He’s having a block of sorts.”

“He can’t finish his story?”

“...In a way, yes. I only moved here recently to help him with finding inspiration. I was looking for a new apartment, anyway.”

“Why Kawagoe-shi?”

“Ah,” a sliver of a smile lifts Akaashi’s lips upwards. “He wants to focus his story on the cherry blossoms of Spring. He finds the _Shingashi_ River to be the prettiest during that period.”

Bokuto tilts his head in confusion, before chortling, his eyes caving into crescents. “That’s a weird thing to focus a shounen manga on!”

Akaashi looks up from his pile of clothes to turn and face Bokuto, blinking slowly with an unreadable expression, almost like he didn’t expect Bokuto to say that. But all of a sudden, as the wind tousles his short curls, under the warm golden gleam of the sun, Akaashi hugs his clothes tighter to his chest, and laughs softly. Bokuto almost forgets how to breathe.

“I guess you’re right.”

*

_Early Summer (June, 2022)_

“I can’t believe I’m working with you guys even after you almost failed and got caught,” Atsumu drawls, pulling a beer out of Bokuto’s fridge.

“Don’t be rude, Tsum-Tsum. The only thing you’re good at is being a chauffeur.” Oikawa snaps, limbs sprawling all over the neon red sofa. He turns to Bokuto, adding, “I thought you were quitting for good? Why am I still seeing your ugly face around here?”

_Why am I always surrounded by assholes,_ Bokuto thinks wryly. Then again, no innocent, not-an-asshole person would be in this profession. “If I remember correctly, _I’m_ the one living here.”

“Yes, Konoha-san,” Atsumu sings, grinning cattily. Bokuto feels his cheeks burn. Oikawa stays silent, choosing not to tease him, watching him with unreadable eyes. Bokuto had insisted that Akaashi was just a friend, but his quitting the art thief business was more than enough proof that that isn’t quite the case. Still, even if Oikawa caught on, he doesn’t comment on it.

“I don’t know why I told you about that,” he mutters, already regretting all of his life choices.

Atsumu tosses Bokuto a beer, which almost slips out of his hand from the condensation on the can. “Because Kuroo found out that you talk to other people, idiot. In case we ran into him you’re officially Konoha, programmer by day; but turns into Bokuto, freakishly flexible art thief by night. You’re like an evil batman.”

Oikawa guffaws at the words ‘programmer’ until he starts to tear, as Bokuto whines at them to shut up. Ever since the success of Operation: _Fukaku Shinobu Koi_ and Bokuto announcing the delay of his retirement, Atsumu has been coming over under the orders of Kuroo to prepare for their next job. Bokuto’s last one, in fact. Atsumu is that type of guy who can easily build rapport with anyone, despite being as sharp-tongued as Oikawa. He, Bokuto learns, has a smooth Kansai accent that barely sugarcoats his snarky comments and has more than enough exasperation when Bokuto decides to suggest stupid ideas. Working as a driver for rich corrupted men in a nearby wealthy district, he quit that end of business when Kuroo offered him the job.

(“You’re still working for one,” Oikawa quipped during proper introductions. Kuroo threw an unused cigarette stick at his head.)

Atsumu told them a few stories of his previous jobs. He had driven over the whole of Tokyo, he swore, and he’s memorised every road, every small street corner, and which parts were safe from the speed cameras. Considering how fast and smooth sailing it takes for them to reach Okada Museum and back to Tokyo, Bokuto wholeheartedly believes all the crazy stories he told them. He’s grateful that there is at least someone else for Oikawa to focus his attention on, and Bokuto could always do with some extra company. The downside now is that, well, Bokuto has to face unwanted wisecracks from two assholes. Feeling embarrassed with the tips of his ears pink, he groans at them to shut up as they continue their laughing fit over bad jokes about his wretched, hopeless pining.

“I can see that its as noisy as ever,” someone says as the front door opens with a click. “But Kuroo-san did assure me that he soundproofed the place.” That voice. It _can’t_ be. Bokuto excitedly turns despite his shock, a wide grin immediately plastered on his face, trying to match that familiar voice to a face, but Oikawa beats him to it.

“You!” Oikawa screeches, pointing a finger in piqued disbelief. Kageyama shuts the door calmly, indifferent to Oikawa’s hostility. “What the fuck are you doing here?!”

“Kageyama!” Bokuto exclaims happily, eyes and grin widening. “What are you doing here? Kuroo told me you were in Italy!”

It seems so surreal, and Bokuto can hardly believe that Kageyama is _really_ here, in the flesh. The tall, flustering and peevish nineteen year old whom he had to take under his wing has built on more muscle, eyes brimming with a new maturity, and there’s an unfamiliar confidence in his stride. How long has it been, three years? Seeing Kageyama pricks at his heartstrings, making him realise how time has passed so quickly, yet he has remained stagnant, simply existing.

“Bokuto-san, long time no see,” Kageyama replies, giving him a rue smile. “Yeah, that plan went bust and we had to leave immed-“

“We don’t care!” Oikawa interjects, positively seething. Atsumu rolls his eyes, hitting Oikawa’s legs lightly.

“Oh? I think you’d like to hear it, Oikawa-san,” Kageyama says with an eyebrow raised. “We failed because Sakusa missed an extra alarm that the security placed at the last minute. Tsukishima and I almost got caught.”

At that, Oikawa’s attitude shifts, eyes gleaming at the sound of failure due a surveillance error not caused by him. “Aw, that’s too bad,” Oikawa replies slowly, feigning empathy although he is plainly transparent. “Omi-Omi is as meticulous as it gets. How _ever_ can he miss something so trivial?”

Bokuto shrugs. “Everyone makes mistakes,” he says, ignoring Atsumu’s jab of ‘ _Fukaku Shinobu Koi’_ in between poorly-concealed coughs. It _isn’t_ his fault that the bluetooth decided to short-circuit.

“Poor Omi-Omi! How must he be feeling right now?” Oikawa drags a sigh out, blinking ever so innocently.

“Well, like shit obviously,” Kageyama scoffs. “But it was because of him that nothing turned up in the security cameras-“

“Okay, I’m bored already,” Oikawa interrupts loudly, stretching. “So why’re you here, Tobio-chan? Come crawling back to us after failing to conquer Gallerie dell’Accademia?”

Kageyama politely accepts the beer that Bokuto hands him. “No,” he says, bemused. “I like working with Sakusa and Tsukishima...I know that sounds strange coming from me. But Kuroo asked me to assist you guys in this job. He offered extra.”

Bokuto blinks. Kuroo rarely hires extra. Usually, its three-person maximum, and its been working well that way. Just how important is this job? And they all have the highest success rate out of everyone so far, if he were to say so himself. _It better not be the Louvre._ Bokuto sucks in his lips, the thought screaming anxiety in his mind. _It better not be the fucking Louvre. That would be straight up murder._

It is still reeling in his head as Atsumu introduces himself to Kageyama in the background with an empty grin and “I’m Miya Atsumu, driver. Nice to meet ya, Tobio-kun.” Kageyama seems slightly nonplussed at Atsumu’s quick use of his first name, but he gives a jerky nod back nonetheless.

The door clicks open yet again even before Kageyama can get settled down, Kuroo pushing open the door, uncharacteristically quiet. They cut their conversations short; everyone stunned at his somber entrance. But as Bokuto watches Kuroo hold the door wide for a shorter man — who walks in and gives Kuroo a thank-you nod — it dawns upon him. Kuroo’s client, the art collector; the one who has been making him look like a lovesick puppy. The one who made Kuroo hire them to steal _Fukaku Shinobu Koi._ Bokuto chews on his bottom lip, trying to exchange a glance with Kuroo. Kuroo avoids his gaze, thin-lipped. The room quietens to a rare silence.

“Guys, I’d like to introduce you to Kozume Kenma,” Kuroo says, the seriousness in his voice rubbing off everyone in the room. Even Oikawa sits up from lying on the sofa. “He’s our client for this job and he’d like to formally discuss details. He’s willing to pay huge for this and its unlike anything we’ve done before, so listen up.”

He is young, is the first thing that comes to Bokuto’s mind when he first glances at Kenma. He hasn’t met many clients before — they often preferred to speak to Kuroo alone, hiding behind a screen of anonymity that only the latter was allowed to peer behind. Kenma, on the other hand, must be at least around their age or younger still. His hair, dyed blonde like Atsumu, is tied loosely in a low bun with black roots peeking from the top of his head. Even his clothes look expensively fashionable; streetwear fitting for an underground art collector. The way he carries himself in a quiet, tepid demeanour has all eyes focused on him, apprehensively awaiting for his words. _He kinda reminds me of Akaashi_ , Bokuto thinks absentmindedly. But he quickly shakes him out of his head, afraid he’ll be overwhelmed with the feeling of _missing_ his quiet, yet all too straightforward neighbour with deadpan jokes and green fingers. Bokuto hasn’t seen him ever since they first talked when he got back from Okada, and it downright _sucked_.

A collective of polite ‘hello’s circle back to Kenma, and he starts by whipping out his phone, silently scrolling until he says, “have any of you heard of the artist called Five?”

“Five? As in the number?” Atsumu replies, incredulous.

“Yes.”

They exchange glances with one another, before Oikawa and Kageyama raise up their hands slowly. Bokuto turns to them, surprised. Oikawa grimaces at the fact that he is in the same boat as Kageyama, and notices that Bokuto is shooting him a quizzical look. “What?” He shrugs. “We’re literally in the art business, baby. Of course I’m gonna be a little into it, y’know.”

“For those who don’t know,” Kenma shows them his phone. Images of still life: bowls of fruits and vases of flowers, depicted so realistically that Bokuto can almost swear they are photographs. “Wow!” He exclaims, mouth agape in awe. He isn’t the only one; all of them crowding around the small phone to marvel at the paintings. The admiration isn’t really directed towards how realistic Five has drawn them. No, it was _how_ he drew them. The sheer absurdity of a fruit bowl floating in the middle of an ocean; the subtle ripple of waves drawn to the most complex precision, so life-like that Bokuto can almost see the bowl bobbing up and down with the currents. A vase of sunflowers that looks eerily similar to Van Gogh’s, tipping over the edge of a rooftop, making his heart quicken at the sight. It is horrifying yet mesmerising: he can’t pull his eyes away.

“Amusing, isn’t it?” Kenma says aloud, snapping them out of some self-induced trance. “They’re fooling around with famous still-life pieces. They have quite the odd sense of humour.”

“Yeah, they’re quite popular on social media,” Kageyama nods. “Tsukishima showed me their account before. But no one knows who Five really is.”

“You mean Five is anonymous?” Atsumu raises both eyebrows. “That’s rare.”

“Kind of like Banksy,” Kuroo adds, folding his arms.

“There’s a really popular rumour on the internet that says Five is Japanese. Apparently the source is pretty credible, like their manager or something.” Oikawa says after sipping his beer.

Bokuto scratches his head, lost in the sudden influx of information. “Wait, why are they even anonymous, though? Don’t artists want their names to be recognised?”

“They can afford to...I guess,” Kenma mutters. “Personal preference, maybe. Their canvases have been auctioned close to a five hundred thousand so far. I doubt they worry about money.”

“What?!” Bokuto screeches, only realising now that he has been living under a rock this entire time. Stupid Kuroo and his stupid burner phones. Wait. Didn’t Kageyama just blurt out that _Tsukki_ had access to social media? _That crafty little bitc—_

“So what about Five?” Oikawa traces the sofa cushion with his finger, head resting on a propped-up arm. “Want us to steal an auctioned piece? Those have a pretty heavy value, as you mentioned.”

“That’s not it,” Kenma says slowly, turning his head to Kuroo’s direction, who gives a small encouraging nod.

“They’re my best guys,” Kuroo assures him in some sort of weird, gentle tone that makes Bokuto want to gag. He isn’t used to Kuroo being even a pinch of affectionate. “When they were still a trio, they never failed a job...despite two of them having no chemistry at all. Now with Atsumu, I’m sure the dynamic is more even.”

Oikawa scoffs in denial loudly as Bokuto catches Kageyama rolling his eyes. Atsumu smiles, though it looks somewhat eerie, chirping, “of course, Kenma-kun. You can leave them to me.”

“Shut it, Tsum-Tsum. You’re the newest one here, know your place,” Oikawa snarls, eyes narrowing as he folds his arms together in a scowl. Atsumu replies with a nasty stink eye.

“As I was saying,” Kenma rests both of his hands on each sofa arm. Everyone turns to face him. “Five has announced that they’re holding their first ever exhibition in Mori Art Museum. Albeit a small one, I’m surprised they have made this decision at all due to their reclusive nature. But it is just. One. Day. No more, no less.” 

Kageyama jolts up, his utter disbelief reflected on the rest of their faces. “That’s way too short.”

“It is,” Kuroo agrees. “It will be held on the first day of autumn, which is towards the end of September. We won’t have other days to survey the area of the actual exhibition itself. It is small, and this also means it is very exclusive. The only time we can strike is the night before.”

“I don’t care for their still-life collection,” Kenma adds quietly. “I already have a few through legal means...What I want is their newest piece.”

“And what is it?”

Kenma smiles humorously. “I don’t know.”

“Whaddya mean you don’t know?” Bokuto cries, eyes widening. “Then how’re we gonna steal it?”

“Its the main reason for the exhibition,” Kenma tells them patiently. “The big reveal of their first ever portrait piece. Not still-life, but one of an actual person; that isn’t for sale under any circumstances. Five had made that very clear. Naturally, everybody has been anticipating it. There’s a rumor that its going to be one whole elaborate face reveal.”

“And so...you want us to steal a mystery painting that _no one_ has seen before,” Oikawa blinks rapidly. “I know its by Five, which makes me wanna snatch a few of their stuff for myself...but a _mystery painting_. In _Mori_. Where security is as tight as my jeans on a Friday night.”

“Yeah. You should know that I particularly enjoy collecting portraits,” Kenma answers blankly. “And what more by one of the most talented artists in our current time?”

Bokuto stares off into a distant space, his thoughts a mess of a whirlwind. Maybe its the alcohol that’s running through his veins, or maybe its the warm break of the summer’s early days. But Kuroo is right. It is definitely unlike what they’ve ever done. The lack of preparation that they have to deal with, in addition to the short timeframe as their only opportunity to steal the painting. The missing portrait right before exhibition day — the _chaos_ that would ensue. What if the police uncovers their tracks? Where will they hide it after that? The Kawagoe-shi apartment? Kuroo’s other apartments? How would Five feel about losing a painting they swore not to sell? Bokuto suddenly thinks, a small seed of guilt sprouting at the centre of his ribcage. He frowns. This isn’t like him at all.

His head starts to spin. Bokuto restrains himself from grabbing a cigarette box under the coffee table.

Amidst his hazy cloud of thoughts, he hears Akaashi’s voice softly murmuring his name; _Koutarou,_ greenish-blue eyes peeking shyly from behind his long lashes, and it instantly soothes his tired mind. Its not real; he _knows_ it isn’t real, but he still wishes it was. In his stillness, Akaashi is always there, to remind him that people aren’t always bad, that some do not need to live just to exist. Who knew that the thrill he had been chasing for is in the gentle gaze of that man? That instead of the adrenaline high and the cheap pleasure money brings, he simply had to gaze at how Akaashi’s curls turn almost raven against the setting sun and think: _I wouldn’t trade this for the world._

“I’m in,” he says, mouth set in a straight line, looking steadily at everyone’s surprised faces that stopped short in the middle of a conversation. “I’ll do whatever it takes.”

“Bokuto-san,” Kageyama replies cautiously. “You _do_ know the full scope of this job, right?”

“Yeah!” Bokuto answers. He knows that he doesn’t seem like the most meticulous of planners, but he does put a considerable amount of thought into taking up new jobs, even if this one seems completely out of impulse. “Don’t you just _love_ challenges?”

They give him a long, hard stare, in a mix of disbelief and exasperation. All except Kuroo, who chooses to focus his gaze on the coffee table instead, a hint of an amused smile ghosting past his lips.

Oikawa pauses for a few seconds to regain his composure, before sighing loudly in pretend exasperation, adding, “well, if this is Kou-chan’s final job, I guess he would want his favourite partner by his side.”

“Oh?” Kenma hums, turning to Bokuto. “You’re quitting the business?”

Bokuto laughs, a tad louder than he would’ve liked it to be, due to a jolt of nervousness at the sudden question. “Well...!” He starts, before faltering, adding with a silent chuckle, “I guess I’ve found something more important.”

Kenma doesn’t prod further, but he seems impressed. “Its rare, isn’t it,” he answers quietly instead. “To find something worth fighting for.”

But before Bokuto can reply, Kageyama sits forward, his fingers laced between each other. “Let’s do it.” he says with the tilt of a smile, his eyes lighting up with fiery enthusiasm. Seems like some things have never changed after all. “For old times’ sake.”

Atsumu shrugs indifferently, though he hides his grin poorly. “Yeah. I mean, Mori is nearer than Okada for sure.”

And for the first time today, Bokuto catches Kuroo’s gaze. He holds it with a serious determination, spilling over the seams. All his words bottled up and then laid bare, as if to tell Kuroo that quitting isn’t a simple whim, and maybe, he might really just be a fool. But he is serious this time; serious about leaving this criminal life of his, serious about helping Kuroo with this last job; more serious than he’s ever been. So Kuroo should stop looking like he’s got a _stick up his ass_ and do _something_ about it.

As if to tell him: _You say you are in love, but so am I_.

Kuroo’s eyes widen. Slowly, he nods back.

*

_Early Spring (March, 2022)_

For some strange reason, Bokuto starts to think of his life before being a thief. It comes back to him like a wispy, hazy dream, one that he thinks he can remember but he knows he can’t. Instead, he paints an utopian fantasy; an incredibly _normal_ , mundane fantasy; picking and knitting pieces of what happened and what might have been, because that’s what it was, right? _Bullshit_ , he thinks bitterly. _This isn’t any different._

Before Kawagoe-shi, Bokuto was never alone. Before Oikawa, there was Washio. Strong, quiet, dependable Washio. He took no nonsense, didn’t spend any time on wasting it, and got his end of the job done quickly. Bokuto liked him; he liked him a lot — even when Washio told Kuroo that he wanted to quit. That _this_ _just wasn’t it_. Bokuto remembers being frustrated then. He remembers, in his desperation, shouting at Washio. _Why are you doing this?_ His hands wrung in the air, bottom lip trembling in the heat of the conversation. _There’s so many more paintings and artefacts to see, so many more museums to explore. You’re missing out on so many things!_

Most of all, he remembers the expression on Washio’s face when he glanced over for the last time, uttering those three simple words that struck the sharpest chord; staying, lingering, tormenting.

_No, you are._

Oh, what Bokuto would give away to erase that expression out of his memory. The dirty, unsettling feeling of pity. Pity that makes him sick in the stomach. Mostly because he didn’t understand. He didn’t want to. There are times when he wondered why Washio left. It definitely wasn’t a problem with money — he refused to accept whatever Kuroo offered him. He wonders what Washio was looking forward to in a normal life. He wonders what its like to look forward to anything at all. But he decides to drown these thoughts in the high of the job, in the rush of the chase, trying to give up sieving any comfort out of Washio’s words. Still, he wishes he has it figured out.

And in the most unpredictable of circumstances, he starts to reach his answer in small, unsteady steps. Four days after meeting laundry-hanging Akaashi on the balcony, he goes down to the mailbox to check why his mail was being misplaced. Thirty minutes after rush hour, Akaashi bursts into the lobby, almost drenched from a passing shower. He looks up, shocked and slightly embarrassed for Bokuto to see him in this state. _Konoha-san_ , he coughs out, chewing on his bottom lip. _Please don’t mind me_. Bokuto can’t help but dissolve into a fit of laughter — which immediately breaks any remaining ice that they were threading around each other. And it makes Bokuto go to his mailbox again the very next day, half an hour after six-thirty (he checked), as Akaashi walks into the lobby; this time, having an umbrella in hand. And this happens again, and the day after, and the day after. Bokuto tries to be more discreet, opting to stay in on sometimes, resisting the urge to open his front door when he hears footsteps outside on the hallway.

But then he stops and questions what he is doing, if he is going too far. He comes to the conclusion that he’s simply just bored. _Of course_. He tells himself. _That’s it_. Kuroo’s waiting games are excruciatingly torturous, and Oikawa and Atsumu aren’t enough to get through the mundane weeks. So he goes for early jogs just to greet Akaashi good morning, and he casually waits by the mailbox in bubbling anticipation, just so that he can walk with Akaashi to their apartments. And when Akaashi invites him to eat breakfast at the nearby bakery for the first time, Bokuto can’t stop the grin that spreads across his face as he exclaims, _“I thought you’d never ask.”_

It is boredom, he continues to tell himself. And nothing more.

An unlikely friendship, a wrong step in time and place — in the grand scheme of butterfly effects and parallel universes — and they wouldn’t have met at all. Or at least, that’s what Bokuto would like to believe. Listening to Akaashi’s gentle voice in the background of the pouring rain, to see his eyes light up when Bokuto grabs an extra _onigiri_ from the shelf keeps him painfully awake at night, his mind travelling to the crevasses of the past, the ripples of his perfect fantasy. He grasps for this old, forgotten emotion he gingerly labels as happiness. It is frightening, yet oddly exhilarating. Bokuto lies in the darkness of his room, hearing his heart beat echo loudly against the narrow walls, realising he keeps craving for _more_.

_Is this what it means to look forward to something, Washio?_

Balcony Days become a weekly affair — a term Bokuto cleverly coined to describe the afternoons he spent with his arms dangling over the railing, asking Akaashi about his day and in return, giving him a glimpse of his journey around the world. Akaashi would laugh a little louder at Bokuto’s crazy stories about pigeons attacking people on the canals of Venice. He’d shake his head disapprovingly at Bokuto’s flimsy excuses of dinner, passing him a bento while saying “I just happened to make a little more today.” And on days when Bokuto comes back from the Okada Museum for surveillance, exhausted, Akaashi would catch him stealing a quick smoke, gently chiding his nasty habit. Bokuto promises he’ll stop.

Time becomes strangely bearable; as Bokuto finds himself trying to catch up, finding himself longing for dawn to break during sleepless nights, just for a Balcony Day to come quickly. And it does. Akaashi starts to linger on his own balcony for reasons more than laundry, to hold on to their conversations a little longer. He starts to make Bokuto feel uncontrollably giddy and relieved at the same time, all in a messy heap of thoughts that often leave him breathless. Maybe Washio was right, Bokuto realises. The _want_ to get to another day. The feeling of looking forward to something. The feeling of looking forward to _someone_. He reaches this epiphany when he’s staring dizzily at the ceiling while the shadows of his furniture loom over in an ominous forebode. He whispers to them shakily.

“ _Fuck_.”

Akaashi still calls him by Konoha-san, that when each time he says it with an underlying tinge of exasperated fondness, Bokuto wants to say _no, call me Koutarou_ instead. However, he simply keeps this small, wishful desire in the palm of his hand, holding it close to his heart, unable to let it go. And soon, Balcony Days are not enough. Breakfasts together at the nearby bakery are not enough. Slow walks up to their apartments are not enough. Bokuto is increasingly aware that he might be a little bit too infatuated with his neighbour. And is it really wrong? He sits up straight on his bed. The shadows whisper back. Is it really that wrong? If so, why is he feeling this constant tug of guilt? Because he is nothing but a liar?

Grabbing the burner phone from his desk, he calls Kuroo. The latter picks up after three rings.

“What do you want?” He sounds grumpy, voice hoarse from sleep.

Bokuto inhales deeply, before saying, “I’m quitting.”

“Hah?” Kuroo doesn’t even sound surprised at the slightest. Bokuto has done this more than twice. “Is _Fukaku Shinobu Koi_ too difficult? Or is Oikawa being a little bitch again?”

“No. No, no,” Bokuto replies hastily. “I’m just letting you know. I’m really going to quit after this. So if you want to, you can send me back to Europe for my last job instead.”

Kuroo is silent for a while. “There’s no need. We’ll see,” he finally says. “You usually change your mind halfway.”

“I won’t.” _Not this time. I’ve had enough._ He hangs up after that, carelessly flinging the phone onto a pile of clothes on the floor. Trying to sleep now is futile. To make matters worse, they’re making another surveillance trip later. He won’t have the liberty of taking a nap on the car ride there because Atsumu drives like a mad man and Oikawa blasts his music too loudly. Walking over to the living room, he eyes the packets of cigarette boxes under the coffee table. He takes one on an impulse, tightly gripping it as he slides open the balcony door. Hugging his hoodie closer to his body, Bokuto lets out a subconscious sigh. In the dead of the night, the whole world seems to be at a standstill; like time has frozen and all he can do is watch as reality slips away. But there are exceptions. A single lamp post that flickers on irregular tempos; its low glow slowly dying out. An occasional breeze that pinches Bokuto’s cheeks numb. The small flame from his lighter as he lights the end of his cigarette. Dirty, wispy smoke that twists into the starless sky. Bokuto stares at the shadowy figures of buildings and cable wires. He stares until the back of his eyes pinch in tautness, wanting to ingrain this picture forever in his brain.

“...Konoha-san?” Akaashi’s voice pulls him back in. Bokuto turns, meeting Akaashi’s gaze. He has a hand resting on the balcony railing, ears pink from the cold. Bokuto blinks; he didn’t even hear Akaashi’s sliding door open. Was he really that out of it?

“What are you doing here, Akaashi?” Bokuto replies incredulously with a smile, but even he knows that it falls flat. “Can’t sleep?”

“I could ask you the same thing,” Akaashi says. He is hugging his arms together, almost entirely shrinking into his sweater. There is a brief silence, until he adds, “are you okay?”

Bokuto brings the cigarette to his lips, and then exhales deeply. Akaashi doesn’t stop him this time, he notices. Instead, his eyes stay silently on Bokuto, filled with concern. Bokuto doesn’t know if he wants to laugh. Is it really that obvious, or has Akaashi always been this perceptive? He wishes there was a way to tell him everything; to pour his heart out and for Akaashi to accept every piece of it. Bokuto wonders if Akaashi would hate him. He holds back this longing feeling of reaching out, to touch Akaashi just once. How it would feel to wrap his arms around him. To kiss him into oblivion. _Would you hate it?_

It is unfair, really, _too_ unfair. Even with sunken eye-bags and messy, uncombed hair, Akaashi still manages to look like the most beautiful person he has ever seen. And Bokuto can’t do anything, merely observing, admiring; like he is a priceless, precious canvas. He wonders if in another universe he could just climb over his balcony through that small annoying gap, and simply close the space between them, until there isn’t a need for pining from a distance.

Bokuto begins to despise this reality.

“Akaaaashi,” he says, dragging out his name as he rests his arms and head on the railing. His hand which holds his cigarette dangles over, bits of tobacco falling down. “We’re friends, right?”

“Of course,” Akaashi answers, slightly quizzical at Bokuto’s random question. “Friends tell each other things like their favourite food, don’t they?”

At that, Bokuto lets out an amused chuckle. “No one chooses vegetables as their favourite food.”

“I’d beg to differ. _Nanohana no karoshiae_ is delicious.”

Bokuto laughs, his eyes crinkling. “That’s gross. You gotta learn to let loose and eat some cake or something. Cake is awesome.” 

“Eating cake for dinner isn’t _awesome_ , Konoha-san.”

“Oh yes it is. And I even remembered to brush my teeth after that.”

“That doesn’t change anything.”

Bokuto grins. “It _definitely_ does.”

Akaashi smiles. He turns away from Bokuto, glancing off into the scenery of sleeping buildings and flickering lamp posts. “You finally seem more like yourself.”

His words feel like a block of heavy bricks plummeting down his gut. Bokuto’s eyes quickly dart away, the familiar sense of dread washing over him. _Liar liar liar._ “Yeah.” He mutters dismissively, taking another puff. Akaashi glances over at him, wearing an unreadable expression on his face.

“You’re right,” he suddenly says, saving Bokuto from the uncomfortable tension that was going to envelop them. “I couldn’t sleep. I had a bad day.”

Akaashi has his arms resting over the ledge as well, fingers intertwining with each other; fidgeting hesitation. A forlorn look; reflecting a wallowing sadness that Bokuto is all too familiar with. It dawns upon him, in the stillness of nighttime, that Akaashi seems...lonely. Bokuto never really noticed, no, he _should’ve_ noticed, but he didn’t. Akaashi never looked lonely around him. Bokuto knows the feeling well; he’s learnt to embrace it sometimes. And somehow, instead of looking at Akaashi from across his balcony, its like he’s back in an empty museum in the dead of the night. In the deafening silence of endless hallways, as sculptures glare at him with their marbled eyes, Bokuto can’t help but stop and gaze at the portrait of a melancholic, wingless angel.

“What happened?”

“Its nothing,” Akaashi says at first, before adding, “the strange thing is that its nothing. Maybe its an accumulation of things.”

Bokuto doesn’t know what to say except “I’m sorry”, for reasons more than one.

“Don’t be,” Akaashi replies, looking up at him. “Seeing you today has been oddly refreshing, Konoha-san. You’re always so happy. I never thought I’d ever see anything other than that.” A small smile appears on his face. “Not that I don’t want you to be.”

“Pfft. You’re not making any sense.”

“Am I?” Akaashi replies, tone amused. “What I mean is that, I’m glad you’ve allowed me to see this side of you. I’m glad you trust me.”

_And is it really wrong?_ The shadows whisper in gleeful torment, coaxing and dripping with honey. _To pour my heart out to him? To trust him? To be completely myself?_ _Liar liar liar. Nothing but a liar._ A memory resurfaces, one of Oikawa crying into his bedsheets in France, days after their successful Monet sweep, because he had fallen in love with a local girl and thought she loved him back. He told her then — despite Bokuto’s protests — about who they really are, wanting her to accept everything of him. Instead, she recoiled in horror and threatened to call the cops. It took a whole lot of guts and persuasion on Bokuto’s part to convince Kuroo to give her enough money to shut up. It was like a never-ending nightmare, but thankfully, the Monet pieces did appease Kuroo for a while at least, and the girl disappeared completely from their lives. For Oikawa, not so much. He loved her, but it dissolved into nothing but pain, and Bokuto had to bear the crux of it. He swallows, the dry taste of his cigarette at the back of his throat, Oikawa’s bitter words muffled into the bedsheets haunting him like lingering ghosts. _Love never ends well for people like us._

He turns to Akaashi, quietly replying with a smile, “isn’t that what friends are for?”

*

(Bokuto wasn’t surprised when Kuroo had agreed to accompany him for a surveillance trip in place of Oikawa. Given, Oikawa hadn’t arrived in Germany yet, and Kuroo had said something about not trusting Bokuto enough to complete a surveillance by himself, especially since this is the first one for a German client. Hamburg Kunsthalle is especially grand, with its pristine walls and glass ceilings, giving off a minimalistic design apart from the burst of colour and detail entrapped in canvas frames.

For one, he hates wearing caps. Still, he adjusts it lower to block the sunlight streaming in through a glass pane on the ceiling, accidentally bumping shoulders with Kuroo as the both of them trail amongst a group of tourists on a museum tour. _Nana_ is a full-bodied oil canvas by Manet, of a beautiful young woman dressing up in retaliation to the standard of modesty during that time period. They’ve walked around two whole floors but yet there is no sign of it, which is making Bokuto fidget in impatience. Beside him, Kuroo meticulously types on his phone the locations of any security cameras they pass by.

They turn round a corner, and finally, they stop.

“Bingo,” Bokuto sings under his breath. The client wasn’t lying when she told Kuroo that its a relatively big piece. Stretching to an impressive 154 centimetres, Bokuto silently wonders if he’d be able to cut her out of her frame in time. The woman in the painting, _Nana_ , seems to stare at them with a strikingly pointed gaze, almost like she can smell their ulterior intentions.

“...And it was refused at the Salon of Paris in the very same year! So Manet took matters into his own hands and showed it off in the window of a shop...” The tour guide’s voice filters in and out between the ambience of the exhibition room. Behind them, a string of children run after one another in a game of chase. Bokuto glances around, his eyes briefly catching a small security camera in a corner southwest of where they stand. Kuroo seems to see it too, but has already taken his phone out, snapping pictures of _Nana_ along with the other tourists.

The guide finishes her monologue as quickly as she started, already moving on to the painting beside her. The rest of the tour shuffles towards her, as Kuroo nudges Bokuto. “Come on,” he says. “We can leave. I have other stuff to take care of.”

Bokuto blinks, still looking around absentmindedly. “Ah, okay,” he replies, before his gaze lands on the painting that the tour guide is gesturing in front of. “Kuroo. Wait.”

“Hah?” Kuroo says, but Bokuto quickly shifts closer to stand behind the tour group again, entirely fixated on the painting. He glances at the small name tag beside its golden frame, glinting under the glass pane. _Wanderer above the Sea of Fog._ Bokuto stares, entranced. It is captivating — above the clouds, on the jagged edges of a rocky precipice, the back of a well-dressed man faces him. The man in the painting, in turn, gazes at the mountainous expanse before him. Although shrouded by mist and clouds, the muted azure landscape is unnervingly endless.

“...We can see from his noble stance as he looks towards the scenery before him, that he has reaped the fruits of his laborious hike, and now looks over the world, distinguished and triumphant...”

“She’s not entirely right, you know,” Kuroo says in a low voice as he comes up next to Bokuto, staring unwaveringly at the painting as well. 

“Yeah...” Bokuto replies blankly. “He seems almost...sad.”

“So you see it too?” Kuroo says, glances at him, before looking back. He chuckles, “some say that its about the insignificance of our uncertain existence. A client told me about this piece before. Though he never got around to commissioning it. A shame.”

“Huh. Deep shit,” Bokuto manages out. Strangely, it makes much more sense to him than anything the guide had explained.

The tour group is long gone, though the both of them remain in front of the _Wanderer above the Sea of Fog,_ standing in comfortable silence. It feels almost all too real; Bokuto can’t look away, biting the inside of his cheek. He wants to go closer, to trace the canvas with his fingers, to feel the cloak of mountain mist and the rough mountain ridges. But a small seed of fear stops him from doing so; the feeling that if he does, he would be confronting a reflection of something he has buried deep within himself.

Turns out he doesn’t need to, because Kuroo does it for him, adding, “hm, the way I see it, it represents a journey of contemplation and self-doubt with a yearning for something more. The mystery of the vast and lonely landscape parallels the fear that humans have of the unknown. The fear that there is so much more to life than what they are now.” His eyes flicker to Bokuto, and they exchange a glance. “Y’know what I mean?”

Bokuto looks at him quizzically. No matter how often he has heard them, he can never get used to Kuroo’s passionate and strikingly accurate interpretations of art. “Dude, I didn’t get a word you just said but I think I understood everything.”

Kuroo shoots him the same expression. “What are you talking about? Dummy.”)

Which is why he forces himself not to recoil in surprise when he sees the _Wanderer above the Sea of Fog_ hanging on Akaashi’s apartment wall, framed and centered in the background of cement white. Akaashi had invited him to eat dinner after Bokuto had mentioned how he was getting sick of _omurice_ for the tenth time this month. Naturally, Bokuto was over the moon, and daydreamed about it again and again with a loopy grin even when Oikawa and Atsumu came over that afternoon for discussions. He kicked them out earlier as well, giving some halfhearted excuse about feeling sick. Neither of them questioned it. They both thought that he had gone batshit insane.

Akaashi’s apartment is extremely organised and neat. Relative to Bokuto’s, anything can be seen as neat, really, but he is especially in awe of how well-kept Akaashi’s apartment is, though they practically have the same layout. There are little differences, like a smaller couch, and a fridge dotted with small country magnets and lists. In places where Kuroo hung up incongruous 18th century and contemporary paintings in Bokuto’s apartment, Akaashi filled those spots with vases of Arrowheads and Peace Lilies. He had insisted that Bokuto remain in the living room because he isn’t finished cooking yet, and didn’t want to hear anything about a guest helping out with making dinner. Bokuto doesn’t put up much of a fight: he’s aware of his nonexistent culinary skills. Reluctant to sit awkwardly on the couch alone, Bokuto lingers near the kitchen, when the painting immediately catches his eye; on the wall just behind the dining table.

A familiar itch twitches his fingertips. The painting isn’t the real thing, no, this is smaller and not the same quality of canvas. The real thing is still in Hamburg Kunsthalle, probably beside another piece that definitely isn’t _Nana_ anymore. Bokuto has always regretted not spending that extra minute to cut out the _Wanderer_ despite it not being part of the client’s request. He was royally pissed off at Oikawa who insisted that there was a guard coming from Exhibition Room 2A when in fact he was looking through the wrong security camera. It was a stupid desire anyway, Bokuto had decided in the end as pity consolation. He had no home to frame it up.

“Konoha-san...?” Akaashi walks out of the kitchen, holding a dish and placing it on the dining table. Bokuto whips around, but Akaashi has already caught him staring at the painting. “Ah...I like art,” Akaashi says, sounding slightly embarrassed. “That’s—“

“—The _Wanderer above the Sea of Fog_.” They both say at the same time. “...By Casper Friedrich.” Akaashi trails off, his eyebrows raise in mild surprise. “You know it?”

Crap.

“I kinda...like art too...?” Bokuto says flimsily, laughing dismissively. It may have been a mistake to show off his knowledge about the painting, but his chest warms at the sight of Akaashi’s impressed expression. Definitely worth it. “I meant, uh, is that my friend really likes art and he tells me a lot about paintings and stuff so I ended up liking it too! He tells me about the _Mona Lisa_ too and...and—“

“Konoha-san,” Akaashi laughs lightly, and Bokuto falters. “You’re rambling again.”

Bokuto scratches the back of his head sheepishly. “I guess I tend to do that, huh.”

“Its okay,” Akaashi replies, amused, pulling out a chair to sit down. “Dinner is ready.” Bokuto follows suit, taking the opposite seat. His mouth waters at the smell of food that lies on the table. Its been forever since someone has made food for him.

“Meat? _Yakiniku_?” Bokuto exclaims giddily, mouth spreading into a wide grin at the plate of beef in front of him.

“No, Konoha-san,” Akaashi replies incredulously. “I don’t have a grill. But I know how much you like meat so I fried some.”

“And _Nanohana no karoshiae_?!” Bokuto adds, quickly glancing up at Akaashi, chortling. “Is this one of your tricks to get me to eat vegetables?”

‘Of course not. Although...” Akaashi rests his head on his hand, his gaze fixed on Bokuto behind his long eyelashes. “Vegetables are delicious. You just have to cook them right. Give it a try.”

“Okay,” Bokuto relents, not wanting to be rude. “Thank you for the food...” His eyes continuously glance towards the plate of meat, but under Akaashi’s expectant smile, his chopsticks go for the _Nanohana no karoshiae,_ gingerly chewing them. A burst of flavour explodes on his tastebuds, salty and sour with a tinge of bitterness.

“Its yummy,” he says aloud with his mouth full, eyes wide as he exchanges a glance with Akaashi. His chopsticks immediately go for another round. “ _Akaashi_. Wow.”

Akaashi raises an eyebrow. “Are you going to take back what you said about vegetables?”

“Only for you,” he replies quickly, before realizing how that sounds. “Your cooking, I mean. Your cooking is the best, Akaashi!”

“That is clearly an exaggeration, Konoha-san.”

“I’m being serious,” Bokuto insists earnestly. “You’re amazing. How do you cook so well?”

Akaashi stiffens visibly, his expression impassive and unreadable as always, but he glances away before the tips of his lips quirk up in what Bokuto thinks is a shy smile. “You flatter me.”

“Naw. Its the truth, though.”

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you’re trying to score another free meal.”

Startled at Akaashi’s dry joke behind his indifferent tone, Bokuto replies with a loud laugh. “That is _not_ true. But if you’re offering...”

Akaashi exhales a short chuckle. “We can arrange that.”

“Wait— really?!” Bokuto grins widely, chewing with his cheeks puffed out. Eyes caving into crescents, he chirps out, “I’m finally gonna eat sooo good again.”

“It would also be a good opportunity to learn how to cook yourself, Konoha-san.”

“Believe me, I’ve tried!” Bokuto replies in between mouthfuls. “But I can never do anything without something catching on fire. By the way, I think half the meat is already finished.”

Akaashi turns to the almost empty plate, before exasperatedly saying, “and I haven’t even eaten any of it yet”. But his tone does not hold any bite, and instead, he looks pleased. Bokuto beams, the warmness from his chest radiating off his skin, like the amber gleam mellowing down from the lights above them. Crickets sing to the full moon; a cheerful, childlike tune, only to be interrupted by the clinking sound when their chopsticks touch the porcelain plates. If home is where the heart is, Akaashi has allowed Bokuto to see a sliver of his, the parts of neatly-written refrigerator lists and Murakami novels stacked in every drawer. Solitary standing lamps that wash the apartment in a dim glow. A thick sweater that reveals the thin protrusion of his collarbone. Slowly, gradually, as Akaashi catches Bokuto sneaking a glance one too many times, the realisation of his predicament hits him like a slap to the face. Bokuto reddens considerably, sputtering out a cough as he chokes on his rice. When Akaashi hurries to the kitchen to get him a glass of water, Bokuto presses his palms onto his knees, fingernails digging into the skin of his thighs. Inwardly, he curses himself out of angry embarrassment.

He’s being way too obvious.

“Here you go,” Akaashi says behind him. Bokuto hopes he doesn’t notice his flustering. “Are you okay?”

After long, big gulps of water, Bokuto replies, “S-sorry. I don’t know what got into me.”

“Its fine. That can happen if you eat too fast.” Bokuto doesn’t know if Akaashi is simply unaware or if he is choosing to ignore him out of politeness, but it can very well be both; given that he has never made Bokuto like this _on purpose._

“That isn’t the actual painting though.” Akaashi says, when they are well into their meal and finishing up the remaining of the dishes. _I know that._ “The real one is in Germany, if I’m not wrong—?” _You’re not. I was there._ “—and crazy expensive, probably.” _I can steal it for you, if you want it. I’d steal anything for you._

“Crazy,” Bokuto echoes blankly.

“Well, this imitation cost a bomb too, if I’m being honest,” Akaashi says, his fingers fidgeting with one another. “But there was just something about this painting that...” He trails off, voice fading as he shakes his head. “Ah, never mind... I apologise, Konoha-san. It was just a foolish whim—”

“Don’t say that,” Bokuto interjects quickly. “I totally get what you mean.”

“...You do?”

“Yeah. I thought he looked kinda...sad.” Bokuto replies, head resting comfortably on the palm of a bent arm. “Even though he reached the top of the mountain he seemed so...”

“Unfulfilled.” Akaashi adds softly.

“Yeah, that!” Bokuto concurs, beaming. “Really makes ya think, huh!”

Akaashi’s eyes widen slightly, looking mildly surprised, before he exhales loudly with a smile. “Its funny, Konoha-san,” he says quietly, and yet his words echo against the dim walls. “You never seem to run out of ways to surprise me.”

“You know, Akaashi, you aren’t the first person to tell me that.”

Akaashi gives him a pointed look, amused. “I meant it as a compliment.”

Bokuto laughs loudly. “Then you are the first!”

He chuckles along with Bokuto, a soft tinkling sound behind the palm of his hand, the other grasping a cup of hot tea. The sound sings like a melody in Bokuto’s ears, and he yearns for to hear it again. It is strange — the feeling that he had been searching for, the feeling that he thought he did not understand. Bokuto has made Kuroo and Oikawa laugh countless times. He even earned a muffled chuckle from Tsukki once. Yet it feels entirely different when it escapes from Akaashi’s lips. A paradox of emotions, akin to the painting that hangs behind Akaashi’s head. He wants more, and fears it all the same. The fleeting thought passes him by. _How terribly bittersweet._

“Akaashi,” He says loudly. “Today’s a Balcony Day, y’know that?”

“Balcony...Day?”

Bokuto nods enthusiastically. “When we talk on our balconies.”

“Balcony Day...How very creative of you, Konoha-san.”

“Very funny, Akaashi.” He huffs, but still, slipping out a smile. 

“Okay. I don’t see why it can’t still be one.” Akaashi tilts his head in consideration, glancing out at the sliding glass door. He turns back to Bokuto, eyebrows raised in dry amusement. “It has been an effective way to distract you from smoking too.”

With Bokuto’s whiny retorts and the apartment behind them, Akaashi shuts the sliding door with a silent click. The quiet bustling of the street below them gets carried away by the wind, as little people hurry home to escape the bite of the evening’s freezing grip. And it is when they are standing on Akaashi’s balcony that Bokuto realises there isn’t a gap between them anymore. No space that separates their balconies, no metal railing that keeps him at a distance. Here they are, enveloped in the heavy whispers of the evening wind— the cold numbs his fingers to the bone, yet a clammy sheen of sweat gleams his palms. His eyes flicker over to his right, his empty balcony like a mirage. They aren’t doing anything out of the ordinary. They’ve watched the stars together many times; Bokuto connecting nonexistent constellations together, with Akaashi humouring him by convincing him that he’s figured out Orion’s Belt. But this time Bokuto can’t focus on anything else except for the way Akaashi’s forearm presses against the sleeve of his jacket, their hands over the railing, empty and longing.

“Did you know, Konoha-san?” Akaashi says, his gaze to the moon. “Stars are actually bigger and brighter than the Sun.”

“Wait—“ Bokuto does a double take, turning to face him. “ _No_ way.”

“And they don’t twinkle either.”

“Now you’re just screwing with me.”

“The more you know,” Akaashi answers, amused at Bokuto’s reactions. With a hint of a smile and the familiar melancholic expression that Bokuto notices when it slips out carelessly, he adds, “but I still like to pretend they do, like they’re waving at us from far away. They seem lonely, don’t you think?”

The noise below has quietened down a long time ago. And it seems almost like a dead street, when time starts to slow to a stop and the only other person who seems to exist is standing next to him. The stars reflect their shine behind his eyes, the night sky as dark as his tousled hair. And he is beautiful, Bokuto thinks, and it is a thought that has never left his mind. When the world folds itself up and the endless night sky suddenly is in Bokuto’s reach, the stars conjure themselves to life, to dance around Akaashi like fireflies, gravitating to his beauty like how the sun chases for the moon. Bokuto yearns to swim deeper into this bottomless black hole just to lose himself entirely; just to grasp onto the fleeting sadness that Akaashi has allowed him to see.

“I’d be lonely if I only appear at night.” Bokuto answers, his voice echoing like the quiet beat of a drum, drowning the chirps of cicadas.

Akaashi does not reply to that, but from the slight nod of his head and a incredulous chuckle that bubbles out from his chest, he had been thinking the same.

“When I was younger I learnt that stars didn’t actually disappear, so I tried to look for them during daytime.”

“Your eyes must’ve hurt.” Bokuto mumbles, unable to hide the fondness in his tone. Akaashi doesn’t notice, or perhaps he chooses not to, proven time and time again, letting Bokuto understand that the distance between them is still separated by those thin metallic railings, that he has merely been floating in orbit when there is still a whole world yet to be discovered.

“It did. It was impossible,” he replies with a slight curve of his lips. “Sometimes I look back and think; why did I ever try to do that? But as it turns out, I never stopped,” he pauses, turning to face Bokuto, and says softly. “Because it does get a little easier now.”

Bokuto laughs with a large incredulous smile. “What do you mean, Akaashi?”

Akaashi blinks, the tips of his ears a faint pink. And he quickly looks away, back to the stars and the view of buildings heads and cable wires. Exhaling out a thin wispy cloud, he chuckles in return, answering, “I have no idea.”

*

_Mid Summer (July, 2022)_

Working undercover might probably be Bokuto’s favourite part of the job. It is the only time when he doesn’t need to coup up in Kuroo’s apartments and be able to engage in some sort of normal human interaction, albeit it having to be as little possible. His appearance already stands out as much as it is. Bokuto removes his cap for a brief second, scratching the back of his head. He really dislikes wearing them, but it comes with the mustard apron provided by the cafe, and Kuroo had insisted that he doesn’t want anybody to be recalling that they’ve seen a pair of golden owlish eyes and white spiky hair.

(“You won’t die if you don’t spike your hair up every single day,” Kuroo groans loudly after an hour of Bokuto’s protests, massaging his temple with a wince.

Bokuto scoffs. “That’s rich; coming from you.” 

“Its my natural bed hair, you dick! I can’t help it!”

“That’s even more gross,” Oikawa sniffs.

“Shut it, Oikawa. One more word and I’m not paying you.”)

Kageyama and Bokuto were both picked for undercover duty and had to choose between being a janitor or working at Mori Museum’s cafe. The choice was made fairly easily, since Kageyama can have the leeway to memorise the layout and pattern of the overnight security while moping in silence. He’s slowly becoming nocturnal, he had claimed. Bokuto, on the other hand, is just happy to indulge in social interaction. The crowded ambiance of the cafe and the museum is like a breath of fresh air. Although his job is to take note of the entrance security, he finds himself getting overwhelmed with the surprising workload of a part-timer.

As much as he tries to stay optimistic, he had sorely underestimated the stress of working in a busy cafe. He feigns a large, toothy grin to a customer after handing her an extra cup, hoping that it hides the fatigue that is eating away at his energy. Undercover meant pretending like he knew the difference between a latte and a macchiato. It meant him offering to clean the dishes at the back of the cafe on purpose, because Kuroo’s nagging voice in his head tells him that he has to be out of sight for as much as possible. It meant jamming the coffee machine on accident and putting too much truffle on fries. He’d be lying if he said he’s enjoying himself. More so when the manager, Daichi, gives him a sort of look that tells Bokuto that he has already expected this, added with a dash of disappointment when Bokuto breaks a plate for the third time. Bokuto mostly feels bad, really. Daichi is already exceptionally nice and patient, though he often acts like he’s disciplining a child when Bokuto makes a mistake.

(“Its really effective, you know,” Atsumu tells him one day, when Bokuto is curled up on his couch, dead tired from his latest shift. “Your coffees are starting look more than just bean water. We were watching you through Oikawa’s cameras.”

“Stop spying on me, perverts,” Bokuto mutters into a cushion.

“Its literally my job,” Oikawa rolls his eyes.

“I saw you sulking in the storage room after you wrote the wrong order again,” Atsumu teases, deftly dodging the cushion Bokuto hurls at him. “Geez, Bo-kun, you gotta work on your mood. It swings faster than my driving.”) 

The lunch rush hour is a huge pain in the arse, but it dwindles down as quickly as it comes, the only customers remaining are a couple seated by the entrance of the cafe. Bokuto is left slumping onto a spare chair in utter defeat. He still hasn’t gotten the hang of the register, and he isn’t the best at math, so counting money is definitely not his forte. Frowning, he grumbles inwardly at the absurdity of the cafe’s design. Whoever thought that it was a good idea to have a cafe right next to huge glass walls clearly wasn’t thinking about the welfare of the staff. During the high of noon, the sun bears its fangs, mercilessly beaming down at him. He squints as the rays cut through the glass a little too sharply. It is sweltering.

The heat makes Bokuto space out in a daze, staring blankly into thin air behind the register, though his short-lived bliss is immediately interrupted by a very rude customer.

The customer places his hand heavily on the counter, making a loud sound. Bokuto jumps. “Hi, yes, hi. _Excuse me_ , are you listening? I want an iced chai latte with ten extra shots and make sure you use two cans of whipped cr—“

“Oikawa?! What are you doing here?” Bokuto snaps out of his stupor, hissing softly. His panicked eyes dart to where Daichi might be. Thankfully, he’s busy restocking the coffee beans in the storeroom and hasn’t noticed the very unwanted visitor. He grabs a cloth, pretending to wipe the surface of the counter. “Go away! Shoo!”

“You’re so mean, Kou-chan,” Oikawa drawls, completely unfazed. “I’m just here to check out the museum. I’ve always wanted to look around Mori. You were right about it though — its _so_ high up. And is the whole exterior made of glass?”

“Can’t you screw off and bother Kageyama instead? He’s in the West Wing and could really use some help finding Five’s exhibition.” Bokuto also really wanted to avoid another of Daichi’s mildly disappointed looks. It gives him an eerily similar feeling of letting down his dad.

Oikawa scrunches up his nose in melodramatic disgust. “Um, no thanks. Tsum-Tsum is doing that for me. I brought him along.”

“Look, whatever,” Bokuto says distractedly, his tongue poking out slightly in concentration as he pulls out a crumpled piece of paper from his pocket. “Anyway — since you’re here — I found out that they’ve been changing their security system every five days. Its crazy.“

Oikawa smoothens out the creases of the paper, an eye twitching at Bokuto’s illegible handwriting and stickmen figures. “Well, this is Mori we’re talking about, so I’m not surprised. Companies rent out the offices below so they’ve got to be extra careful.”

“Do you think they’re on edge ‘cause of what we did in Okada?”

“Could be. This is just one whole shit show, isn’t it?” Oikawa shrugs wryly. “Its definitely too soon for us to be doing this job. I don’t think they’ve recovered from the news yet. _Honestly_ , what is Kuroo thinking?”

_Wouldn’t you like to know,_ Bokuto thinks sourly.

“Konoha,” Daichi suddenly calls from the storeroom. Bokuto’s head turns so fast he swears he could’ve gotten whiplash. “Can you help me put the Brazilian Blend packets on the shelves?”

“Sure thing!” Bokuto replies a little too loudly, scooping the packets into his arms and walking out to the shelves at the dining area. Oikawa raises an eyebrow, nonchalantly leaning on the counter.

“You’re being weirdly enthusiastic about this.”

Carefully lining the coffee bean packets in a neat row, Bokuto replies, “Daichi is a good boss. Kuroo should learn a thing or two.”

“You want him to coddle you and give you a sticker when you do something right?”

“ _Hey_! I don’t need coddling. Besides, its motivating. I’d infiltrate the Louvre for a cute owl sticker.”

Oikawa barks out a laugh at Bokuto’s joke. “You better not let Tetsu-chan hear that. He’d definitely use it against you,” Oikawa mutters, glancing skeptically at a piece of laminated paper on the counter, messily dotted with miscellaneous animal stickers. “Which reminds me, I gotta delete the cafe’s audio tape for today.”

“Sorry ‘bout that.”

“Its fine. At least you’re actually paying attention to the security. The camera facing the entrance always cuts off at odd timings— holy shit.”

He trails off mid-sentence, but Bokuto hadn’t been listening anyway. He’s accustomed himself to tuning out Oikawa’s voice by now, and continues to check if the other packet blends needed to be refilled. However, a sharp slap stings his shoulder numb, and he yelps in pain.

“Ow!” He snarls, rubbing his sore arm. “I’m working, you asshole, so could you _please_ just go away—“

“Shut up, Bokuto,” Oikawa says seriously, his mouth agape and wide eyes staring at the crowd entering the museum at the main entrance. He pokes Bokuto painfully, the latter slapping his hand away. “ _Look_ , will you? Isn’t that—?”

“What?” Bokuto snaps, following Oikawa’s line of sight to the throngs of people filtering in and out of the entrance. He doesn’t know why Oikawa’s so worked up.

“Do you not see?!” Oikawa whisper-shouts, grabbing the hem of his shirt in his agitation. “That’s your neighbour, isn’t it? What was his name again...Akaashi Keiji!”

Bokuto’s heart stalls, his breath immediately hitching in his throat. His eyes frantically trace across the large crowd, searching for a man with short black curls and a long cream coat. And finally he does spot Akaashi, and it really is Akaashi; near the revolving doors and talking to a woman in a smart pencil skirt. He’s at least five stone throws away but it really is him, in the flesh and everything. Bokuto pales visibly and his mouth dries up, shocked at the fact that Akaashi is here while he is undercover. What is he doing here?

“Oh fuck, oh shit,” Oikawa is rambling beside him. “Okay, shit sticks. They’re walking towards us. I’m leaving, Kou-chan. Good luck.”

“What?! And leave me here?!” Bokuto hisses, his breaths quickening. “At least pretend to be a customer or something. What about moral support?”

“Nope, no can do. He saw me enter your apartment before,” Oikawa hastily replies, already pulling his face mask over his nose and mouth. “Also...I might’ve said hi to him once. Okay, bye!”

Bokuto screeches, “what the hell you _talked_ to him?!” but Oikawa has already turned his heel, leaving him frozen with his hands awkwardly gripping packets of coffee blends. He quickly figures that he has ten seconds maximum, ducking his head and running back to the main counter to tell Daichi that he has a horrible stomachache. But Daichi is already walking out of the storeroom, brushing his hands on his apron with a satisfied smile. Adjusting his cap, he turns to Bokuto, smiling cheerfully. “Ah, thanks Konoha! And you stacked them so neatly, too! Just let me get my sticker pack and you’ll have one more to a free cookie...”

“Uh, toilet, I need...poop,” Bokuto stammers, but before Daichi can give him a response, a lady clears her voice politely and their attention turns to her.

Bokuto can feel his face heating up, and he’s pretty sure he can hear his heartbeat in his eardrums. The lady and Akaashi stare back at them — her face impassive as Akaashi’s eyes widen in surprise at the sight of Bokuto behind the register. Bokuto gulps, palms pressed heavily against the counter to steady himself. Akaashi looks so good. Is he wearing glasses? Why hasn’t Bokuto seen him wear them before? And he’s dressed so nicely, too— is he on a date? Bokuto glances glumly at the lady beside Akaashi, his heart sinking heavily. She’s really pretty; with an air of elegance that surrounds her. So, this is Akaashi’s type: delicate, refined, gentle—

“Konoha-san? Is that you?” Akaashi says in blunt shock. “You work here?”

Daichi and the lady are equally surprised, giving Bokuto and Akaashi quizzical looks.

Bokuto laughs nervously, his voice cracking. “Yeah! I...I quit my job, remember? I’m just working here before I decide where to go next!”

Nice save. It sounds believable enough, and Akaashi seems to buy it. His fingers start to intertwine; a little habit that Bokuto always notices. “A-ah, I see. That’s great, Konoha-san. You must’ve just started because I haven’t seen you around here before...” he mutters distractedly, before quickly turning to the lady and saying, “Shimizu-san, would you like the usual?”

The lady — Shimizu-san, Bokuto notes to himself grumpily — nods silently, giving Bokuto a long, hard stare with the same mildly confused expression on her face. She makes it so blatant that Bokuto begins to feel a little uncomfortable.

“Two Iced Americanos,” Akaashi tells him, subconsciously pushing his glasses up his nose. “And...one of those _omeboshi onigiris_.”

“Your favourite,” Bokuto blurts out. Akaashi’s head whips up, the tips of his ears pink, before he chuckles softly, slightly embarrassed, and Bokuto dies a little inside. “Yes, my favourite.”

“He bought the same thing last month!” Daichi comments from the coffee machine, grinning. “I remember you coming in with Shimizu then.”

Bokuto’s head spins, a million questions popping up in his mind. So he’s been here before? On a date? With the same person? Why didn’t Akaashi tell him about her before? Did he even have a right to think that it is any of his business? Still, he wonders if he had read their situation wrongly.

_I thought you would wait for me._ Is it so wrong for him to assume that? Or to even think that? Had he been so ahead of himself the whole time? _Nothing sucks more than the tight slap of humiliation_ , Bokuto thinks glumly.

He keys the order in the register, chewing on his inner cheek. From his periphery, he catches Akaashi shooting Shimizu a weird look; one that seems strangely cautious and worried. And when Shimizu replies with a quiet, comforting hand on Akaashi’s shoulder, Bokuto’s finger jabs the register screen with a little too much force. He can feel a twitch forming under his right eye.

“Here is your change, thank you,” Bokuto mutters despondently. “So what brings you around here, Akaashi? Seems like you come here a lot.”

That sounded more accusatory and peevish than Bokuto had hoped to hide, but Akaashi doesn’t notice, fingers fidgeting around his wallet as he blinks at his sudden question.

“Uh, I—“

“We’re friends,” Shimizu interjects instead, and despite her calm, polite tone, Bokuto’s cheeks start to flush at her words. “And since he likes art, I give him my free passes. A client of mine is going to host an exhibition here.”

“Ah, right! _Wanderer above the Sea of Fog_!” Bokuto exclaims suddenly. Akaashi and Shimizu flinch at his abrupt rise in volume and one-eighty switch in his mood. “How’re the paintings? Are there any cool exhibitions? You’ve seen anything similar to the _Wanderer_ in there?”

Shimizu looks slightly taken aback by Bokuto’s forwardness, though Akaashi is used to it, mulling over Bokuto’s words carefully before replying. “There are many interesting paintings and exhibitions, Konoha-san,” Akaashi replies slowly, in thought. “And no, nothing has caught my eye like the _Wanderer_ has. But... I think I have seen the complete opposite.”

When Bokuto wants to ask him what he means by that, Shimizu glances at her clock and looks back, saying, “speaking of which, we have to get going...”

“Oh— ,” Akaashi replies hurriedly, grabbing the drinks that Daichi made. He gives Bokuto a small smile. “See you later, Konoha-san.”

Bokuto waves back cheerfully, “come back again!” and once Akaashi is walking away, with Daichi oblivious, he exhales in relief. He managed to get through the encounter in one piece, and no thanks to Oikawa, if he might add. As Akaashi walks further and further away with Shimizu by his side, Bokuto finds it hard to ignore the dull ache that pierces shards in his gut; the ebbing fear on the sliver of a chance, that he might be too late.

“She’s been coming ‘round lots this year; apparently her client is some big shot artist,” Daichi says, beside him, chuckling while he adds, “a real sight for sore eyes, huh.”

Bokuto lets out a quiet, unconscious sigh as he watches Akaashi disappear behind a corner, his dark curls that almost hook the cuff of his collar and fidgeting of his fingers at the slim of his waist.

“You bet.”

*

He doesn’t get to see Akaashi at the museum for the rest of the day. Or any of the days after that. Akaashi doesn’t want to talk about it as well, with dark bags forming on his under eyes; he seems more exhausted than usual. Bokuto brought it up once, although the latter waved it off as work being a pain in the ass. During their Balcony Days, he doesn’t mention their encounter, and quietly listens as Bokuto tells him about all about his day as a cafe worker. He doesn’t question why Bokuto didn’t tell him about the part-time job before, nor does he talk about what he did in the museum, which Bokuto found odd because Akaashi’s eyes would positively sparkle at the topic of art. But he, in turn, chooses to ignore the topic entirely, afraid that he would be crossing a line that Akaashi had drawn between them. 

His name crosses Bokuto’s mind one too many times amongst the mundane routine of dishwashing and coffee making, and Daichi has definitely noticed that he is way more distracted than usual. Bokuto knows he shouldn’t be happy about this; he’s here to work and, quite literally, it isn’t exactly legal. Admittedly, he hasn’t been in a situation like this before. Bokuto pauses, his fingers masked in soap suds as he stares at the sink in his realisation. Of all his years of stealing, he has never been on a job where someone close to him did not know of his real identity. A wave of shame washes over him as he recalls the frenzy in France. Kuroo: going through his second cigarette pack between disgruntled sighs as he makes endless phone calls to cover the whole thing up. Oikawa: moping around the French apartment with swollen eyes, barely eating a proper meal. Him: frantically packing their bags to move to another one of Kuroo’s safe houses as he groans at Oikawa for being so unbelievably stupid.

“Who’s the stupid one now,” he mutters quietly to the dirty dish in his hand. Even if he wanted to pursue anything remotely further than friendship while on a job, Kuroo would’ve instantly cut ties off with him anyway. France is a distant memory, but it is enough for Bokuto to be cautious. He knows that he has been going behind Kuroo’s back by talking to Akaashi more than he should, but he swore to himself not cross the line until he is has quit for good.

Even if it means that Akaashi will never know about this part of him.

Call him paranoid, but he’s pretty sure its justified. The last thing he’d want to see is Akaashi recoiling from his touch in horror. Those warm, green eyes turning into a cold hard glare, calling him a _liar—_

“Hey, Konoha?” Daichi’s head pops up at the storeroom entrance. Bokuto blinks quickly as he looks up, immediately turning off the tap which had been running for an inconsiderable amount of time. 

“...Yes?”

“You done? The museum is closing up soon.”

“Ah, sorry! I’m almost done.”

“Okay.” Daichi lets out a chuckle that sounds like a fond sigh. “Good work today.”

“Yeah. You too.” Bokuto answers with a beam as he dries the last plate, carefully placing it with the others. He dries his wet hands on his apron, simultaneously untying it at the same time. As he walks out of the storeroom with his bag, Daichi locks up behind him. The museum is almost empty and almost all the lights are off, except for the ones leading to the entrance. The end of his shift always shows him the prettiest sunsets. Sometimes, the sky dips into orange and sometimes it softens into pink. The glass cuts the golden glow in muted rays, as the shadows of the clouds shroud his vision when they float by. Bokuto tries to keep a look out for the possibility that Akaashi is still in the museum, holding on to a faint hope that they might be able to go home together, but the latter is nowhere to be seen. Bokuto chides himself for being so stupid. Of course he wouldn’t be here. Did he expect a manga editor to visit museums every other day? The museum is a good one hour away from Kawagoe-shi by car. He’d have to meet Atsumu to get home, anyway. What did he even wish to get from that tiny sprout of hope? He tries to ignore the sinking feeling that pools in his stomach.

After he parts with Daichi at the foot of Mori Tower, Bokuto makes his way through the increasingly familiar twists and turns of narrow alleyways housed between humble ramen shops and apartments. The bustling sound of the city fades away distantly. Shadows cast themselves over each other, watching him steadily as he passes by a meowing stray. Without hesitation, he bends down to pet it. However, a curt, sharp honk scares the cat away, and it darts behind the large rubbish bins. Bokuto jerks in surprise at the sudden sound, turning to find Atsumu and Kageyama looking back at him in Atsumu’s van.

“Get in loser,” Atsumu drawls. “We going to dinner.”

“Tsum-Tsum?” Bokuto replies blankly. This isn’t their usual rendezvous spot. He walks towards them and pulls the door of the van to slide open. Oikawa is sitting at a corner in complete concentration, the light of his laptop illuminating his reading glasses. He doesn’t acknowledge Bokuto, who is already used to how he is when he is working on something. More commonly deleting security footage and making logs of their current plan and progress. Despite the burning question eating away at the back of his head, Bokuto forces himself not to be rash. Knowing how snappy Oikawa can be when interrupted, Bokuto decides to wait before questioning him about his admitting to having any sort of interaction with Akaashi. This is the first time they are meeting ever since the encounter in Mori Museum, and of course Oikawa didn’t pick up any of the calls Bokuto spammed him with during the time in between.

“You’re later than usual,” Atsumu nags, as Bokuto shuts the door and he presses on the accelerator. “I had to make two rounds just to catch you. Kuroo’s not gonna be happy, you know.”

“Awh, I’m sorry, Tsum-Tsum.” Bokuto gushes, not sounding apologetic at all, giving Atsumu a bone-crushing hug from the backseat.

Atsumu flails, screeching, “you’re gonna cause us an accident, you idiot!” The van makes a slightly dangerous swerve.

Bokuto laughs, undeterred, releasing the wheezing Atsumu from his tight grip. “What’s the special occasion?”

“Kuroo-san wants to get an update on the situation,” Kageyama tells him from the shotgun seat. “He says its his treat.”

“He has business with one of his friends there and called us over,” Atsumu mutters, making a sharp turn. Bokuto looks out the tinted window. They are driving further away from the heart of the city and towards the direction of Yokohama outskirts.

The sound of a laptop clicks shut, as Oikawa adds, “I just realised it’d be the first meal we’ll all be eating together. How festive!”

Bokuto immediately turns, grabbing a sputtering Oikawa by the arm and pulling him further back to the van.

“Hey, hey! No fighting in my car!” Atsumu yells from in front, but Kageyama waves a dismissive hand. He’s already used to whatever shenanigans Oikawa has pulled before, and Bokuto having to confront him about certain things isn’t an uncommon occurrence.

“Just drive,” he tells Atsumu, somewhat wearily.

With Oikawa successfully cornered in the confines of the van, far enough so Atsumu and Kageyama can’t hear them, Bokuto whispers angrily, “tell me.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You said you talked to Akaashi before.”

Oikawa’s subtle sigh doesn’t go unnoticed. “Yeah...about that. Its really nothing. I was just curious, I guess. I didn’t even give him my real name.”

“What. Did. You. Say.”

“Just a simple hello!” Oikawa shoots back in an equally heated whisper. “Look, I might get shit for this because it was my fault that Bella wanted to rat us out then, but I just wanted to see if Akaashi could be anything like—“

“Don’t you dare,” Bokuto cuts him off, his tone low and quiet, making Oikawa press his lips together in a thin line. “He is _nothing_ like her.”

“You say that,” Oikawa answers after a heartbeat of a second, his eyes narrowing. “But you haven’t told him yet. Waiting to quit and keep this a secret forever?” He says, not breaking their gaze. “You’re the worst.”

His words clearly strike a nerve; Bokuto visibly flinching at his mockery. Oikawa’s eyes linger on his closed fist, tight to his knuckles white. “Please, Kou-chan,” he scoffs, leaning against the wall of the van. “You can’t even hurt a butterfly.”

Bokuto falters, his fist going slack. Oikawa shoots him a pitiful gaze, before relenting, “hey. I’ll show you the log, okay? You know I record everything. I’ll prove that I’m not lying.” He opens up his laptop again, going through the many password encryptions before opening up a document with detailed, carefully dated entries. After scrolling up for quite a bit, he stops on a date right before they had departed for their successful _Fukaku Shinobu Koi_ mission, in April.

“I’ll read it out for you,” Oikawa says, holding the laptop for Bokuto to read. “Level Two’s hallway— ah, these are the meeting details... oh, here it is. Meeting’s adjourned earlier than usual, Tsum-Tsum went downstairs first to drive the van out... I stayed behind for awhile to finish up the log entry then I left...Bumped in Akaashi and said hi...I still remember the look on his face, by the way,” Oikawa adds, glancing back at Bokuto, who’s eyebrows raise in question. “It wasn’t the first time we met. He’s passed by Tsum-Tsum and I a couple of times. But this was right after you told Tetsu-chan you wanted to quit and so...I was curious, alright? He never asked you about us?”

“No...” Bokuto replies blankly. “He isn’t someone to pry.”

“Really?” Oikawa chuckles, looking irritatingly amused. “Because he seemed pretty curious to me. So I thought, why not we each clear our suspicions of each other?”

Bokuto’s cheeks deepen into a faint red, before he mutters, “I don’t know if he even sees me that way. Didn’t you see him with that pretty lady?”

Oikawa frowns. “You’ve gotta stop this bad habit of assuming the worst, Kou-chan. He looked pretty smitten about you to me.”

“W-What’re you even talking about?”

“At first he just greeted me with a nod as I closed your door. I...kinda stared at him for a bit while he was trying to unlock his,” Oikawa admits rather sheepishly. “Then I decided to say ‘hi, you’re Konoha’s neighbour!’ and he looked pretty shocked that I actually started a conversation this time, but he still said ‘nice to meet you’. I said I was your friend, Ushijima Wakatoshi and he said he was Akaashi Keiji—“

“You said you were Ushijima?!” Bokuto whisper-shouts, grabbing Oikawa by the shoulders. “Are you crazy?!”

“I don’t see what’s the problem. It was hilarious,” Oikawa shrugs indifferently, an annoying smile flitting across his lips. “He’s Kuroo’s rival dealer, isn’t he?”

“I know,” Bokuto sighs, pressing his fingers to his temples. “But you can’t just _do_ that, Oikawa—“

“Do you wanna hear my story or not? I asked him if you were an annoying neighbour to have and he said no,” Oikawa holds up a finger. “And get this: he even said that he _enjoys_ having you as a neighbour. Like, I couldn’t believe he said that too— oh, don’t give me that look. You’re insufferable and you know it. He was so sickeningly sweet that I...” he fakes swallowing a blanch. “Long story short, I’m pretty sure he’s got the hots for you, Kou-chan.”

Bokuto covers his face with his hands with a groan. “You’re just screwin’ with me, you asshole!”

“Well...yes and no,” Oikawa answers with a grin, rolling his eyes. “But take it how you want to, lover boy. I’ve said all there is to say.”

“Just...Just don’t ever talk to him again,” he replies warily.

Oikawa gives him a skeptical look, before sighing. “You can’t blame me for wanting to be careful. Not after what Bella did. I still do feel bad about that, you know. And this is the first time I’ve seen you so serious about anyone, really.”

Bokuto resents the sudden small twinge of pity he gets from Oikawa’s words. “I don’t want to hear this from _you_.”

“I know. But I’ll just say this from my experience,” he says quietly. “Not telling him about this part of you might either be the best or worst mistake you’ll ever make.”

Bokuto wants to retort with a snarky reply, but the car slows to a stop and the engine dies down. “Are you guys done with your little gossip talks?” Atsumu drawls from the front. “We’re here.”

“Yes, we are,” Oikawa sings, pulling the van door open to get out, Bokuto silently tailing behind him, mulling over what he had said. They are in a carpark with scarcely scattered cars. With almost no lampposts in sight, the area would be completely dark if not for the bright lantern lights at the entrance of the restaurant emitting a stark red glow against the dimness of the night. The Chinese characters that read ‘The Golden Snake’ are engraved in gold on a thick wooden slate. A waitress clad in a crimson _cheongsam_ opens the door for them, and immediately the noisy ambiance of a drunken crowd with the musical backdrop of _jiangnan sizhu_ greets them like a blast of cold water to the face. Bokuto hears Kageyama tell her Kuroo’s name and she nods silently, gesturing them to follow her as she walks further into the restaurant. The strong smell of cigarette smoke mixed with incense fills Bokuto’s nose as they pass by large glass tanks of fishes and crabs. Small red lanterns lining the staircase lead them upstairs, where the noise dwindles down and private rooms are separated by _shoji_ sliding doors. They follow the waitress to the deepest end of the hallway as she slides the door open for them.

“Yo,” Kuroo says, already seated comfortably in front of a round table, puffing out a thin stream of smoke from his cigarette. “What took you guys so long?”

“Bo-kun’s fault,” Atsumu replies, letting out a low whistle at the spread of food laid out before them. “Dang, what’s got you treating us so good?”

“Its free, as a thank you from the boss here for...doing him a favour.”

“ _Yakuza_?” Bokuto raises an eyebrow and Kuroo laughs, pressing a finger against his smirk.

While they are all seated and eating their fill, Kuroo starts, in between sips of black, bitter _pu’er_ tea. “I gathered you all here today because I heard that there’s some trouble with the course of the operation.”

All eyes turn to Kageyama, who innocently bites onto a piece of dumpling. The _shoji_ sliding door opens gently and the waitress returns with a porcelain pot. The room falls into a weighted silence as she calmly pours them more tea, with only the soulful lilt of an _erhu_ weeping softly from the ceiling. He waits, until she finishes making her round around the table and closes the door behind her when he says, “it’s almost a month to d-day, but we haven’t gotten any clues about the exhibition. Are you sure its even being held at Mori?”

Collective nods circle back to Kuroo, who answers without hesitation, “I’m sure, though I kind of expected this.”

“Expected what exactly...?”

“That they haven’t started the exhibition preparations even though typically they’d already be starting a month ago. Or maybe, they have started but we just aren’t aware of it. Five is really keeping this on a down low,” Kuroo says, resting his head comfortably on the palm of his hand. “Oikawa’s been keeping tabs on their social media, haven’t you?”

Oikawa nods, taking Kuroo’s cigarette for a puff. “nothing about the exhibition. The only photo they have posted so far is an oil-medium close-up of _sakura_ blossoms.”

“He showed it to me yesterday. Its pretty,” Atsumu adds dreamily, head resting on his hands.

“So, nothing out of the ordinary,” Kuroo says. “Which is why this is going to be much trickier. We already know that the exhibition is very exclusive, and I suspect that the museum isn’t going to promote the exhibition because it will merely a host, so the only way you guys can find out the exact location is if you get a pair of eyes on the inside.”

“Yeah, we do,” Atsumu blinks. “Tobio-kun and Bo-kun, right?”

Bokuto pauses from stuffing his face and replies, “not inside enough.”

“Stop talking with your mouth full, _please,_ ” Oikawa groans, nudging his rib painfully. Bokuto yelps.

“He’s right, though,” Kuroo says, grinning as he snubs his cigarette bud. “Of course, to work our way up as museum staff would be too much work and way too time-consuming. The alternative, or should I say, our only shot, is to form connections with someone who has information about the exhibition.”

“Hate to break it to ya, but that’s like finding a needle in a haystack, given our current situation,” Atsumu huffs. “How’s a janitor and a cafe part-timer gonna become best buds with the manager of the museum?”

Kageyama sighs. “I’ll have to agree with Miya-san on this one.”

Kuroo seems unfazed, humming under his breath. His eyes trail lazily to Bokuto, his knowing gaze making the latter shoot back a quizzical scowl in response. However, Kuroo immediately averts his eyes when the waitress returns with an expensive looking bottle.

“Any objections?” He asks, as she already starts to pour rice wine into small tea cups.

“Ah me,” Atsumu says quickly, and the waitress nods in understanding. “I’m driving.”

Kuroo taps two fingers on the table, and she leaves as quietly as she came in. Bokuto downs the wine in a single swallow, the burn deliciously travelling down his throat.

“Good shit, isn’t it?” Kuroo laughs, leaning back into his chair. Atsumu makes an incorrigible sound in response, staring longingly at the bottle placed at the centre of the table.

Bokuto nods, licking his lips. “Damn, how big of a favour did you do for this guy?”

Kuroo shrugs in reply with a slow smirk . “Let’s just say its worth more than two bottles of this stuff, but I’m a very generous man.”

“I’m surprised you take responsibility for drink driving, Miya-san,” Kageyama says, in between mouthfuls of food.

Atsumu replies with a ‘ _tch’_ of his tongue. “What’s that supposed to mean,” he says wryly, before shrugging nonchalantly. “Call it my moral work ethics.”

“What a joke,” Oikawa mutters.

“ _Hey._ My previous bosses never let me drink on the job. It just became a habit.”

The pungent smell of incense tickles his nose, and Bokuto tries not to sneeze. He wonders why Oikawa and Kuroo have been shooting him pointed looks ever since they’ve started their meal. Although, Oikawa seems more apologetic than his usual annoying smug expression. He chews his bottom lip; it feels oddly ominous.

“So about the current predicament we are facing,” Kuroo finally says after what feels to be an eternity. “I believe that Bokuto has found the solution for us.”

_What?_ Bokuto immediately sits up in question, his eyebrows raised in shock. “What the hell are you talking about?” he manages out, his mind reeling with trying to recall everything he did over the past few days. This isn’t one of Kuroo’s sarcastic ways to call him out for a screw-up, is it? He doesn’t remember doing anything wrong; other than the mistakes he made as a barista, he doubts that Kuroo cares for stuff like that. From his periphery, he catches Oikawa mouthing out ‘sorry’ behind gritted teeth.

“Oikawa was going through the audio tape of the cafe the other day and told me that one of the regulars has access to the exhibitions,” Kuroo answers innocently. “Am I wrong?”

“Her name is Shimizu Kiyoko,” Oikawa adds quickly, exchanging a glance with Bokuto that reads _it isn’t Akaashi._ Relief instantly washes over him, but his fingers still grip painfully onto the front of his chair, wondering if he should be furious that Oikawa didn’t tell him about this first. He supposes he should be thankful that the latter didn’t include Akaashi, only hoping that he had deleted the tape before Kuroo could get his hands on it.

“Yeah. I know her,” he decides to say, as calmly as he can. “She mentioned that she has a client who is going to have an exhibition in Mori. You think she might know about Five?”

“Its a lead more than anything else,” Kuroo replies. “Do you think you can look more into this, Bo?”

With all eyes on him expectantly, Bokuto figures he doesn’t have a choice. Well, Kuroo doesn’t leave any options for choosing at times like this. Despite his light, nonchalant tone, his question is more of an order than a request at all, and Bokuto knows this more than anyone else. The smell of incense fills his nose and rises up his throat, clearing his ears and making him blink back tears smarting behind his eyelids. Its just another thing that he has to do; another lie he has to present to Akaashi. No one knows this, no one except for Oikawa, who looks like he regrets choosing this over ignorant bliss. And judging from the way he finds the table cloth more interesting than their current conversation tells Bokuto that he has to carry this weight of the burden by himself. He digs his fingernails harder against the wooden chair, swallowing down his conscience. The sound of the _erhu_ howls in a crescendo, bouncing off the walls and quickening in pace, statically on edge.

“Okay. Leave it to me.” 

The tension in the room disperses. The air clears, and it becomes quiet again.

*

Bokuto goes back drunk.

Curtesy of his friends — if he can even call them friends at all, those bastards — he is left slumped at the foot of the staircase by the lobby, intoxicated and blubbering. Normally he’d say he can hold his liquor fairly well, or at least, definitely better than Kuroo, even. But the latter started bringing out the expensive _sakes_ and the rest was a blurry history of laughing his throat raw and complaining about every single pet peeve he had when he was forced to share a living space with Oikawa. He isn’t usually like this; he is so used to taking things up in his stride and being “so painfully optimistic” (Atsumu’s words) that everyone in the room just sat there listening to him intently while he came up with a thesis on the spot about Why Oikawa Should Never Be Allowed Near Washing Machines.

Since when was the lighting in the lobby this bright and jarring? Bokuto squints, wincing, tiling his head back with an audible sigh. He needs a smoke. Badly. But that might not be the best case, he thinks sourly as he feels bile rising up his throat. Its a miracle he isn’t puking his guts out onto the maroon carpet. The ceiling lights blink back at him, and he giggles drunkenly, pretending to grab them into the palm of his hand. He does this, looking very much like a fool, as Akaashi’s face pops into his blurry vision, confusion and mild distaste written all over his face.

“Konoha-san...What in the world are you doing?”

Bokuto wears a stupid grin, thinking about how much the light illuminating around Akaashi’s head looks like a halo. “Are you an angel?” He slurs. Akaashi raises a brow, before he takes a whiff and coughs.

“Have you been drinking,” he says not so much of a question and it comes out in exasperation. Bokuto nods eagerly, still smiling widely. However, the action causes shards of pain to pierce the temples of his head, and he groans loudly.

“Kuroo...Kuroo, he...” Bokuto says loudly, the consequences of mentioning Kuroo’s name flying over the top of his head. Akaashi allows him to lean on his shoulder when he helps him up. Its warm, and Bokuto instinctively leans into the touch. “he has _amazing sake_.”

“That’s wonderful, Konoha-san,” Akaashi replies with a grunt as he tries to support all of Bokuto’s weight, but its hard when the guy’s over six feet and isn’t exactly the thinnest person. “But I hope you aren’t mixing with the wrong crowd.”

Bokuto bursts out laughing at the sheer irony of Akaashi’s sentence, although the latter doesn’t quite get it, giving him a bemused look. “He’s my bestest friend ever.”

“Really, now? Because seconds ago you were calling your friends bastards.”

Bokuto blinks, before an amused chuckle bubbles out of his chest. Was he saying it out loud?

They stagger up the staircase with great difficulty, because the damned elevator still isn’t fixed for some reason. But Bokuto doesn’t mind. He doesn’t mind at all. Akaashi smells like fresh shampoo and his curls tickle Bokuto’s cheek. He feels sturdier and stronger than what Bokuto had expected as well, under the long sleeves and thick sweaters he likes to cover himself with. His skin is cool against Bokuto’s burning forehead. Subconsciously, he lets out a small noise of content, like its a soothing balm to all his aches.

“Konoha-san,” Akaashi pants out after the second flight of stairs. Bokuto purrs out a ‘hmm?’, which earns him a glance of tired disdain. “Is it really necessary to lean on me so much?”

“Yes!” He chirps happily. “I’m glad you found me, Akaashi.”

Maybe he meant it as something else entirely, but Akaashi seems to take it into context, letting out a small sigh. “You’re lucky I did. I just got back from work.”

“Work? Work is gross,” Bokuto rambles between hiccups and the slow trudging of feet. “Its a huge pain in the butt!”

“Still not used to the coffee machines?”

“Coffee machines?” Bokuto slurs, brows furrowing in confusion. It takes him a second before the realisation clicks in his head and he quickly adds, “y-yeah! There’s so many buttons. I can’t memor— urgh,“ he hurls, bending forward as the sudden urge to vomit hits him in the gut. He feels Akaashi’s hand gently patting his back.

“We better get you inside,” he hears the latter mutter worriedly. “Just a few more steps, Konoha-san. What’s the password to your door?”

“Huh...?” Bokuto replies dumbly, trying to swallow the bile lodged in his throat as his mind scrambles for an answer. He remembers there’s a seven and many ones but his brain isn’t exactly processing it right now. Until all of a sudden, the _Renoir_ painting amongst the many others hung up on his wall flashes across his vision like an alarm. Even in the predicament that he is in now, Bokuto understands that his apartment is definitely off limits to people, and _especially_ Akaashi. He forces himself not to panic, his thoughts going back to the possibility of vomiting all over the carpeted floor and the pounding headache that hasn’t left him since he stumbled out of the restaurant.

“I...I can’t remember,” he tells Akaashi, groaning as he holds his head in his hand.

“I’ll just bring you back to my apartment first, then, okay?”

He nods tiredly, allowing Akaashi to lead him. Eyes closed, he hears the soft beeping sounds and Akaashi’s front door opening with a click. It isn’t long before Bokuto has to rush to the toilet, puking the contents of his stomach into Akaashi’s toilet bowl. But Akaashi pushes away his repeated apologies and insists that he lies down after drinking a glass of warm water. Bokuto can feel himself sobering up, but his tongue is still loose and fatigue is getting to him much faster than he’d like it to be. So he allows himself some slack, eyes fluttering open and shut, in a lazy attempt to keep awake. As Akaashi sits by the edge of the sofa on the floor, brushing Bokuto’s hair out of his eyes, he can’t help but think that this is a little too intimate. Is it wrong that he doesn’t want it to stop?

“M’ sorry,” he mutters, his hazy gaze landing on Akaashi. He has a gentle look on his face, almost fond even, as he continues to trace his finger along Bokuto’s hair.

“Don’t be,” he says, just above a whisper. “Take all the time you need.”

The room is dim and quiet, and Bokuto relaxes completely, the soft tick of the clock on the wall lulling him into the early waves of sleep. He feels Akaashi’s hand move away and suddenly everything is cold.

“Stay,” he hears himself say. “Don’t go.”

Akaashi does not reply immediately, but after a second of pause, he answers softly, “I’m not going anywhere.”

Maybe there is a hand on his, or maybe he’s just imagining it entirely. The seconds between consciousness and sleep are like a floating daydream; a temporary bliss of being suspended in time. As sleep pulls him deeper into her embrace, he hears Akaashi’s voice one last time, faint like a faraway light.

“Konoha Akinori, I…”

He doesn’t get to hear the rest of the sentence. _No, I’m Bokuto Koutarou_ , he thinks, before drowning deep into the dark.

*

When Bokuto opens his eyes again, it is already morning. He sits up slowly, only to be greeted with a splitting headache. Looking around, he finds himself alone in Akaashi’s apartment, still in last night’s clothes. He has almost no recollection of what had happened, so before he crashes into a full-blown panic mode, the only thing that brings him some clarity to his current situation is a note taped to an _onigiri_ on the coffee table.

_I wasn’t able to make breakfast,_ it reads. _I had to go to work early (yes, even though its a Saturday). But I hope you still had a good rest._

_I’m sorry I couldn’t stay._

*

_Mid Spring (April, 2022)_

He is a very light sleeper but somehow, today, he doesn’t seem to wake up. He dreams of nothing at all, yet feels everything around him — the honking of cars, the vibration of the engine beneath his seat, the slight drool at the corner of his mouth, and Atsumu’s voice weaving in and out as someone lightly shakes him by the shoulder.

“Bo-kun. Wake up...!”

Bokuto stirs, but his eyes remain closed, subconsciously shrugging off the hand on his arm. He’s tired; the past few days have been bouts of the usual insomnia. It didn’t help that he was going through the vicious cycle of cold turkey and failing at it, because smoking seems to be the only thing that settles his jittery nerves.

“Let me try, Tsum-Tsum,” Oikawa’s voice comes on a little stronger, and Bokuto’s brows furrow in annoyance.

“HEY! WAKE UP!”

The scream in his ear nearly bursts his eardrums, and Bokuto jolts awake, his eyes wide open and his breath stuck in his throat. He immediately turns to glare at Oikawa, who merely blinks innocently. “We thought you were dead.”

“Yeah, well, ouch!” Bokuto complains, rubbing his ear. “Thanks a lot.”

“You’re welcome!” Oikawa chirps, as Atsumu adds with an amused smile, “we’re at your stop.”

“Back already? That was faster than usual.”

“It was the same, actually,” Atsumu replies. “But you slept like a baby right from Okada.”

“...I did?” Bokuto yawns, rubbing his nape.

“You even slept through Tooru-kun’s playlist. Impressive achievement.”

Bokuto grins, much to Oikawa’s distaste, who indignantly launches into a full-blown debate about his ‘obviously superior’ music taste. Bokuto ignores him, pulling open the door of the van and deftly jumping out. As he cheerfully waves goodbye while the van rumbles to a start, he’s pretty sure Oikawa is flipping him off behind the heavily-tinted window.

He falls into what becomes a biweekly routine; after Atsumu drops him off at this exact spot — the alleyway a few streets away from the Kawagoe-shi apartment — he takes the scenic route through the relatively busy _Shingashi_ River back. _In case anyone follows us back from the Okada Museum_ , Atsumu had insisted, _you can lose them in the crowd._

Pulling a hat out of his bag reluctantly, he puts it on before he steps out of the dingy alleyway and into the bustling stretch of the _Shingashi_ River canal. As he emerges out from the shelter of the shadows of the walls and into the brilliance of a glittering sun, Bokuto pauses abruptly, unconsciously holding his breath in front of the view before him.

_Is it April already?_ He wonders numbly to himself.

Each petal a burst of sunrise; a cluster of clouds, milky white and rouge, smiling as they invite the twilight of spring. The cherry blossom trees dance to the tune of the light west breeze, their skirts pink and flowing along with the current. Bokuto immediately feels washed over with the bitter aftertaste of nostalgia, realising that this is the first time in a long time he has experienced the shy bloom of the sakura flowers. Still, he takes it in, all at once, breathing in the smell of nature’s dew and _takoyaki_ from the adjacent food stalls. The whole place seems to glisten under some sort of magic spell that spring has cast over, and everything seems brighter and brimming with life. Bokuto blinks himself back to reality. He tucks his hands in his pockets, beginning to start the path that cuts through the canal and back home, when he stops himself. Maybe it won’t hurt to take a short walk. After all, it is the prettiest time of spring.

The crowd is not uncommon. Everyone and their loved one appears to want to sightsee the famous _Shingashi_ River in its prime. The trees line up on each side of the canal, their billowing leaves fanning outwards like a canopy over the river and the pavement, offering the gentle comfort of shade. The river waters turn into a blanket of pink as petals lay themselves to rest on its surface. Bokuto sieves his way through, making sure he’s out of view of the snapping phones and cameras, stealing hungry glances at the various food stalls selling street food. As his stomach grumbles to be filled, he notices an _onigiri_ shop squashed in between shops selling clothes and crepes. He figures Akaashi’s tastes must’ve rubbed off onto him, because he finds himself making his way towards it, mouth positively watering. It proves to be a difficult task, however, due to the bustling hive of people crammed in all directions. Mouth set in a thin line, Bokuto tries his best to move inch by inch closer, and when someone trips and collides into his side, he almost jolts in surprise.

“Are you okay?!” He asks instantly with worry, grabbing onto the person to stabilise him. It takes him a second to realise that he is staring at a familiar tousle of black hair, only to be quickly replaced by a set of green eyes that peers back at him in flustered surprise. The sound of the crowd drowns out deafeningly in the face of Bokuto’s loud heartbeat. He wonders how far a stretch he can go by calling this a mere coincidence. But the feeling in his heart bursts forward, unable to be contained; faintly familiar and painfully paradoxical.

“Akaashi...!” He is thankful that he isn’t stumbling over his own words. “You okay there?”

“Konoha-san,” Akaashi replies breathlessly, the nonplussed look still plastered on his face. Bokuto thinks, as the sound reverberates through his skin, that maybe he himself is not able to escape this intoxicating spell. “What’re you doing here?”

“Oh, me? I’m just passing by. I heard that this is a popular _hanami_ spot!”

“I see, that’s...cool,” Akaashi mumbles, the colour of his cheeks returning to him. “But um, Konoha-san. You can let go of me. I’m quite fine now, thank you.”

Bokuto stares at him dumbly, before realising that he’s still holding onto Akaashi tightly, and that the crowd is pushing the latter close against him. He feels his face heat up in spite of himself, and releases Akaashi from his grip, hoping that he doesn’t notice how his cheeks have painted themselves the same shade as the flowers.

“Oh yeah! Are you here for work?” Bokuto asks, voice raised a little louder to compete with the noise of the crowd, as the both of them instinctively shift closer to the _onigiri_ shop together. “Where’s your _mangaka_?”

Akaashi pauses stiffly from scanning the rows of _onigiris_ presented neatly in the display cases, before mumbling out a short, distracted “he’s sick”. Bokuto bends down to his level, grinning knowingly when their eyes meet.

“Why’d you even bother looking?”

A sideways glance. “What are you talking about, Konoha-san.”

“Isn’t it obvious? You always choose the _omeboshi_ flavour in the end.”

Akaashi’s eyes widen slightly, surprised that Bokuto had remembered such a minute detail, before returning a wry smile. “You are quite right,” he says as he straightens up and orders an _omeboshi_ and salmon _onigiri_. The girl behind the counter nods politely, packing both to give it to him.

“Here.” Akaashi says, handing Bokuto the salmon one, clearly amused at his animated expression of bemusement. “For you. Its your favourite, isn’t it?” He talks in a soft, level tone that almost gets swept away by the crowd, but Bokuto clings to it regardless, burning it onto his memory. The space between his lungs blooms out of its cage.

“How did you—?“

Akaashi smiles knowingly. “We’re friends, aren’t we?”

They emerge successful with _onigiris_ in their hands, cramped up against each other as they walk along the pavement that runs parallel to the canal. Bokuto had insisted that he pays because he’s older and therefore that is a sensible reason as good as any. Akaashi deadpans by replying that it doesn’t matter between them as he’s been feeding Bokuto dinner for weeks now, but still, muttering a sincere ‘thank you’ is enough for Bokuto to let him have the upper end of the conversation. The cheery tune that Bokuto only hears during festivals mixes pleasantly with the sound of people on their merry way; either gasping in awe at the ethereal sight before them or talking jovially to one another.

“Your _mangaka_ is going to kick himself, huh,” Bokuto comments, not noticing how Akaashi stalls at his words. “The only time he can see the sakura flowers and he’s sick!”

“Its...a shame. But he’s lucky to have me to help him capture some inspiration.”

“What a good editor you are!” Bokuto exclaims, beaming, earning a dry chuckle. As they stroll further away from the core of the hubbub and towards the ends of the canal that almost seems never-ending, the crowd has dwindled down significantly. Their walk is punctuated by Akaashi’s occasional snaps of the camera on his phone, taking close-ups of the cherry blossom flowers in different angles. _Click, click, click._ He looks contented in his little bubble, as Bokuto watches him by his side. Still, there is that invisible gap in between them, which Bokuto does not want to confess the reason why, although he is well aware of it. He wonders — for a split second, a surge of conflicting thoughts filling his mind — if this gap can ever be bridged without Akaashi ever coming to know him fully. It has been all he is thinking about lately.

“Konoha-san.” Bokuto blinks, his eyes focusing on Akaashi, who gazes at him with his phone still in camera mode. “What’s got you thinking so hard for?”

His brows raise before shaking his head insistently. “I just have a business trip in two days. I can already tell its going to be a whole headache!”

Akaashi nods empathetically, squinting slightly as the wind blows in strong currents. He brushes his hair out of his eyes.“Where will you be going?”

“Kowakudani.” Bokuto replies instantly, although he winces inwardly at his carelessness a moment too late. He is unsure whether it is okay to tell Akaashi the truth regarding the details of the actual job. But its too late for that now. Absentmindedly, he removes his cap, feeling a little sense of relief as his hair is allowed to breathe again. Besides them, there isn’t really anyone who lingers around this quieter area of the River. It should be fine, he thinks hastily.

“That isn’t too far from here. It shouldn’t be too bad, right?”

He laughs. “I’ve been to worse. But its been awhile since I’ve gone on a trip like this. I hope I’m not too rusty.”

“You’ll do great. I’m sure of it.” Akaashi answers sincerely, so raw that Bokuto starts to feel that awful tug of guilt again. He looks down at how the pink petals, browning at their edges, dot the pavement near his feet.

“Thank you,” he decides to say, and Akaashi hums quietly in response, his gaze resting on tiny sparrows nestling on the branches of the tree. They stroll like this for awhile, comfortably quiet, Bokuto sneaking little secret glances, the wind nipping him at his cheeks. _Here, take my bleeding heart,_ he begs in the commas of their silence, to the man who remains oblivious. _You are more beautiful than spring._

Without much thought, he makes a turn and steps over the short wooden railing that separates the pavement from the ridge of the canal; a grassy leverage that spans parallel to the River and directly under the cherry blossom trees. Akaashi blinks rapidly at him.

“Konoha-san, what are you doing?”

“ _Hanami_!” He chirps with a smile, sitting on the grass. Akaashi returns his invite with an incredulous gaze. He hesitates for a moment, looking embarrassed, but gingerly steps over the fence in the end, crouching down to sit next to him.

“Are you gonna take a picture? For work?”

“Oh, yes. Thank you for reminding me,” Akaashi says, quickly pulling out his phone. He snaps a photo just as a man in a _happi_ coat and _sugegasa_ hat steers a paddle boat down the river. His gaze stays steady at the gentle ripple of the river waters — clothed in cherry blossom petals — quietly wonderstruck. From his periphery, Bokuto catches how the shadows of the leaves and flowers flutter across his skin; a monochrome kaleidoscope. And it stirs, awake: the yearning so bad it only gets worse every time. The yearning so bad it almost physically hurts not to entangle their lonely fingers, fidgeting with the strands of grass.

_You are more beautiful than spring._

“How rare,” he breathes out, so soft Bokuto almost misses it. The sea of pink is indeed a lucky charm, akin to finding a four-leaved clover in a vast valley, but Bokuto can’t tear his glances away from the curve of Akaashi’s small smile, and again his heart beats a loud soundless confession.

“Hey, Konoha-san?” He says suddenly, when the paddle boat is a tiny speck on the west side of the river, disappearing over a miniature horizon.

“Yeah, Akaashi?”

“Are you afraid of anything?”

Bokuto pauses. _Many things. Secrets. The police. Bella. You finding out. You hating me. Me losing you._ “Of course. Why do you ask?”

“Have you ever been scared that you’ve never really...lived?” Akaashi wonders aloud, fingers caged together in a repetitive dance. Bokuto’s heart beats quickly against his ribcage, as he realises that Akaashi is revealing more than just the surface of himself. It is laughably contradictory of him to go further into this, to lose himself even more in the man who is Akaashi Keiji, but Bokuto steps a foot into the unnervingly endless black hole, willingly, without constraint.

“Like _the Wanderer_ ,” he replies, and Akaashi nods, a rueful smile ghosting his lips.

“Just like _the Wanderer._ ”

“Is that why you couldn’t sleep that day?”

Akaashi turns to face him, surprised that he remembered. “Yes. And I figured, after you told me you knew about that painting too, that you had given a thought about it as well.”

“More than you know!” Bokuto concurs, nodding hard. “My boss told me I was going through an existential crisis once.”

Akaashi laughs, eyes crinkling, the sound rolling off Bokuto’s skin pleasantly. “We are terrible people, aren’t we?”

A nod, a stroke of relief that he isn’t the only one tormented with these selfish thoughts. “Terribly greedy.”

“Terribly greedy is right.”

“But you know ‘Kaashi,” Bokuto lifts a finger animatedly. “I gave it much thought, and I think I have it figured out!”

“Have you? Let’s hear it, then.”

Bokuto jumps to stand up before Akaashi, a spring in his step. “No one ever experiences everything in their lifetime, right? What happens to us happens for a reason, and we can only accept that!” He says against the song of the wind. She intermingles with his words, interrupting him in between seconds.

“I suppose you aren’t wrong, Konoha-san. Though that is rather cliche.”

Bokuto tuts with a grin. “But you see, Akaashi, we never wasted any opportunities! Those that we never took are just not meant for us... I think!” He rubs the back of his nape, laughing albeit shyly. “But...I guess what I’m trying to say is; there’s no time to worry about what could have been. Whatever we end up doing, and whatever will be in our future — because we are able to see to the end — I’m sure that when we look back, we can be glad we did it and think: _ah, that was fun!”_

Perhaps he is just trying to convince himself as well. No, he’s pretty sure he is. But still, after that Balcony Day and after Akaashi had said something about the stars, it got him thinking. How insignificantly small they were, he had realised ruefully to himself. Since when did anything matter more than it should? Since when did he stop enjoying himself? Stopped having fun? His voice gets carried off with the wind. And then it goes quiet. He’s stunned, Bokuto notices. Akaashi is returning his gaze with a stunned expression, mouth slightly apart and fingers paused from fidgeting. Bokuto beams, clueless, waiting for him to say something.

And then Akaashi laughs, indulgently and gently, almost incredulous. “You...” he starts, shaking his head slightly. “ _Really_. You always know exactly what to say.”

“Well! I must admit that I’m still struggling with it. Easier said than done, I guess. But I hope I still made you feel better!”

“You have,” Akaashi replies, smiling mildly. “Is it just me or are you even more cheerful than usual today?”

“I am! I’m living my life to the fullest!” Bokuto exclaims, smiling widely, his eyes caving like crescents and teeth gleaming under the glint of the sun. And he’s surprised at himself; that he can utter those words with such a raw honesty. This is probably the most truthful he has been with himself in a long time, and it is liberating, lifting him off his feet. The wind tousles up his hair, making the white streaks twirl to her tune. The rustle of the trees. The graceful descent of the petals. The twinkle of the stars above, radiant and obscured. He laughs, before he settles for a softer smile flitting over his lips. “Because I get to see the prettiest time of spring with you. And its beautiful.”

The sun beams between the gaps of the branches, in glittering luminescence. The wind reaches her peak, her final chorus. The melody towards the very end in a grand affair, sweeping the petals into a lavish performance like a passing shower. She is loud and euphonious, while Akaashi is silent. His eyes are glazed over, entirely transfixed on Bokuto, face unusually flushed with an odd, mesmerised look. As if he had seen something completely out of his world, something that didn’t belong in it, and he was struck speechless in muted awe.

“It sure is...” He mutters blankly, still staring. He looks entirely lost in thought as his gaze pierces right through Bokuto, almost like he isn’t there at all, before something snaps and he stands up stiffly. “You...have a flower on your head,” he suddenly blurts out.

“Oh! Thanks!” Bokuto dusts the top of his head. He pauses, before looking at Akaashi cautiously. “I didn’t say anything weird, did I?”

“Huh? No, no of course not,” Akaashi replies immediately, averting his gaze down at the grass, the tips of his ears still pink. “I told you already, Konoha-san. You always know exactly what to say.”

*

The bakery always smells of fresh bread. There is something just incredibly warm and comforting about it to Bokuto, like walking through a door into another dimension. Akaashi tells him that he’s way too cheerful for the early hours of the morning, and Bokuto can’t stop himself from saying that its mainly because he enjoys being in his company.

Of course he thinks that its another one of Bokuto’s thoughtless flirting, paying no mind to it. “I’m hardly a morning person, Konoha-san,” Akaashi replies. And its true. He is a mess of uncombed, unruly hair and sunken eye bags, but to Bokuto, he looks lovely.

“You know, you could choose something different.”

Akaashi pauses, his hand midair, inches away from grabbing the neatly-packaged _onigiri_ on the shelf. Bokuto raises his brows innocently, shrugging. “Isn’t it fun to try something else once in a while?”

“I do like the safety net of routines,” Akaashi admits. Still, he retracts his hand. Bokuto swallows back a yawn when the girl at the counter does so politely behind her hand, his head resting comfortably against his raised, bent arms. Akaashi has been going to work even earlier than usual; something about _newfound inspiration._ It seems like the manga he has been working on with his _mangaka_ has gotten out of its mental block. He’s happy for him— although Akaashi isn’t one to open up, there is a distinct lightness in his step and a surge of unfamiliar energy in his words. Bokuto suppresses the corners of his mouth from lifting, quickly turning to look out the window of the bakery to watch the sun peak out from behind the outlines of buildings and trees. The birds start to awaken, greeting the world with songs of the ages.

He perks up, his eyes catching an apricot tart. Pointing at it, he exclaims, “how about this one?”

Akaashi scrunches his nose. “No sweet stuff in the morning.”

“You don’t like sweet stuff _anything._ You wouldn’t eat it even if there was a a gun to your head.” Bokuto contorts his face into a mock pout, but it does seem to elicit a response out of Akaashi, who jerks his head to face Bokuto, disbelief sweeping past his features.

“That is far from the truth.”

Bokuto smirks slowly, drawling his words out in a tune. “I don’t know, Akaash’. I just don’t think I’ve ever seen you break out of your daily routine before.”

Akaashi opens his mouth to say something, but he pauses, eyeing the bright yellow apricot tart. In a smooth motion, he places it on his tray along with Bokuto’s chocolate croissants. “Well, you’re just going to see it this one time. But if this isn’t as good as an _onigiri_ , you will be in my debt.”

“Hey—! That’s not fair!” Bokuto sputters, while Akaashi ignores him, going up to the cashier for payment. “Your tastebuds practically worship _onigiri._ Nothing’s gonna top it for you!”

“You should’ve watched yourself before playing a dangerous game, Konoha-san.” There is a slight smile on Akaashi’s lips as he pays up and starts to walk out of the bakery, handing a defiant Bokuto his croissant.

“Then you should’ve been clearer if we were gonna be making bets like this!”

“Im afraid its too late for that,” Akaashi chuckles dryly, taking a bite of the apricot tart. He chews slowly, expressionless, as Bokuto walks next to him, eyes wide and expectant.

“I was right. Sweet things and mornings definitely do not go well together.”

“Awh! C’mon!” Bokuto persists, mouth full of chocolate bread. “Maybe finish it first!”

Akaashi shoots him an incredulous expression, before breaking out into a chuckle. “I’m kidding. Its delicious. I wish I had tried it earlier.”

Bokuto puffs out his chest proudly, though poorly masking his surprise at Akaashi’s words. “See, Akaashi? That’s a sign for you to listen to me more.”

“But of course. You utter nothing but words of wisdom,” he replies airily, smiling.

“That’s right!” Bokuto nods his head, still looking smug.“Aren’t you glad you know me?”

Akaashi breathes out a short laugh at his comical expression. “That I am, Konoha-san. Very much so.”


End file.
